Hillwood High (Arnold's Return)
by deebzi pie
Summary: Arnold returns from the jungle five years after moving away. Now a junior at Hillwood High, he encounters old friends, deals with the boarders, and struggles with his new and developing feelings for a certain Helga G. Pataki.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: The prologue is slow and filled with descriptions. I promise the story will pick up!

PROLOGUE:

ARNOLD'S RETURN TO HILLWOOD

 _He's late,_ the pilot sighed, as he watched a family of capuchin monkeys fighting over an orange he had thrown their way shortly after landing.

For nearly an hour, the man inside the helicopter baked in temperatures reaching one hundred and three degrees Fahrenheit in ninety-percent humidity. He didn't know much about the passenger that he was to escort to the local airport, except that he was a young teen who currently resided in a village deep in the jungle, with little access to the main city. The longer the pilot sat there, fanning himself with a magazine brandishing full bosomed Latina women, the greater his curiosity grew. How could anyone want to live here? He thought. Sure, the Green-Eyed people were accustomed to life without modern luxuries, but the stifling heat alone was enough to make him long for his air conditioned home equip with a refrigerator and working ice dispenser—not to mention cell phone reception—nearly 70 miles away from this spot.

He would tell his wife later, he decided, to imagine closing the bathroom door and turning the shower on all the way to its maximum temperature gauge, and allowing the steam to concentrate for a few hours, and then living and working in that environment your whole life. What was worst was that over the chattering of the monkeys, the call of the green-winged macaws, and shy growling of ocelots, one could hardly hear themselves think.

He had to admit, though, it was similar to his hometown in Mexico City. Busses, taxis, stray dogs, and constant bustling of people always on the go, always staring at their cell phones, kids playing ball in the streets, rendered one completely submersed in sea of microscopic growth, while feeling perpetually isolated. Our cities naturally evolve into their own jungles. Still, he thought, I can't wait to get the hell out of here.

Suddenly, he heard one capuchin monkey in particular screech its voice, signaling the whole gang to disperse. Animal sounds were soon replaced by distant human ones. He put his magazine down and looked over from his height inside the cockpit of the helicopter where he could spot a boy from afar, dragging his luggage over fallen tree trunks and shrubs, through gaps left between the ancient Barrigona.

* * *

Must be him, he thought. Right on cue, the pilot turned on the ignition, allowing the blades of his helicopter to rotate gradually to full speed while the boy and a few others following close behind him approached the base of the steps pulled out from the helicopter's entrance.

The pilot peered through a window at the small family parting ways: the Caucasian passenger, maybe 16 or 17 years of age, brandishing an oddly wide head of yellow hair; his mother and father, both in their mid-40s, ushering over what appeared to be an band of tiny brown men and women. He realized that these followers must have been the Green-Eyed people he read about in the paper. They were a shy people, he heard, and so witnessing them in person became an overwhelming experience. He observed their stout stature, their indigenous cheekbones, and black straw like hair. Their clothes were earthy and scant.

When everyone finally arrived, he watched the boy modestly fight off an onslaught of hugs and kisses from every direction. Suddenly he realized that the boy was trying to say something, only to result in looks of confusion on his parent's faces. It took a minute for the pilot to realize the roaring helicopter blades were drowning the boy's voice out, and preventing his parents from being able to hear him. Promptly, the pilot turned off the propellers so that the family could say their good byes in peace.

On this especially warm day, in his final few minutes in the deep South American jungle, Arnold stood at the base of the steps leading to the entrance of a helicopter that was waiting for him in the clearing. The blades had been rotating so rapidly that it seemed as though even the Barrigona branches were taken aback, their leaves holding onto stem for dear life. Struggling against the wind generated by those wings, Arnold pushed back the hair flapping across his face, while he felt the tugs and kisses of both his parents and an army of young children barely able to reach the waist of his faded blue jeans. Old women with long black braids pried their children away, only to reveal their own misty green eyes as they accepted what was their last chance to say good-bye to the boy they grew to love for so many years. With his free hand, he offered his luggage over to two shorter brown men, each with starkly emerald eyes, who in turn threw the luggage over to another pair of men of similar stature. The men climbed the steps leading to the entrance of the helicopter to take his luggage inside. Though he could barely hear himself think over the loud roar of the helicopter, he took a deep breath before uttering his final statement to the parents he had so longed to be with his entire life, whom had once abandoned him as a boy by accident, and from whom he must now temporarily depart as a young man.

"Mom…Dad?" he said over the roaring helicopter. He took a deep breath. This is it. "I'm gonna miss you." Much to his surprised, his parents continued looking at him blankly, smiling as though he didn't say anything. Finally, his mother tilted her head upward, and elbowed her husband.

"What?!" the two middle aged biologists yelled back in union, squinting against the gust of air blowing against their faces.

"I'm…going… _to_ _miss you_!" he yelled louder, annunciating each word this time.

"You need a tissue?" his mother wrinkled her eyebrows. "I thought I already packed some in your suitcase!" Growing irritated, Arnold puffed out his chest, preparing his diaphragm to deliver maximum force this time. He did not even notice when the helicopter's ignition had turned off for his benefit before he continued in what was now dead silence. Even the feisty capuchins craned their necks to hear him speak,

"I SAID I'M GOING TO MISS YOU!"

"Well, no need to yell, son."

* * *

It had been an exhausting morning, packing last minute items, reaching the airport and navigating through customs. By the time he entered the airplane, he found himself breaking out into a fit of yawning as he scooted past an elderly woman to get to his seat.

" _Gracias, abuela,_ " he thanked her, as she made room for him to take his seat. She smiled at him sweetly.

Watching the clouds had always been his favorite part of flying. About twenty minutes into his journey, Arnold decided to gaze out the window next to his seat and found himself half smiling at the marshmallow puffs of air that seemed to engulf him and the rest of the airplane. The clouds through which the plane flew were of all shapes and sizes, and seemed to take on a life of their own, sculpting into various formations and zipping past him.

As his eyelids grew heavy, he noticed some of the clouds outside his window beginning to come together and drawing to an unusual still. _Hmm,_ he thought, _that's strange._ _The clouds seem to be coming together_. And yet, in his sleepy daze, the scene before him unfolded naturally.

Some invisible hand had begun sculpting these clouds into a life-like entity. Little fluffs of white danced around each other in coordination until he could make out the formation of bugged eyes growing out of what resembled the face of a fat Jewish boy with an under bite. Arnold gasped. This face…it looked so familiar. The cloudy eyes narrowed angrily, peering through the window right at him, until he found himself gulping in anticipation.

"Here's the deal!" the cloud's mouth began to move as a hollow and distant voice emanated from within. The accent was uncannily accurate. "Tomorrow, Arnold. Right here. It's clobbering time!"

The last word was drowned out by the echoing sound of nine-year-old voices in the back of his mind shouting barbarically, "Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Arnold's head popped up, and he gasped. _Wait! I can explain!_ he wanted to say, but he found himself unable to speak. Fortunately, it didn't matter, because without warning, the face-resembling cloud began to transform once again.

No longer were the angry eyes screaming revenge peering at him. This time, he noticed, the clouds formed a tall head of hair over a round face. This face was friendlier than the last, sighing with a smile at Arnold while shaking its head.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm. You're a bold kid, Arnold," it said, with a cool, raspier voice than the last, while retaining the same echoing effect, "A booooold kid." Arnold found himself chuckling at its sagely mannerism, but didn't get a chance to respond before the cloud changed shapes once more. When the transformation completed, he gasped again.

A very distinct scowl could be seen. Two jutting pigtails that resembled the ends of a witch's broom, a bow placed betwixt them, and a distinct unibrow came together. This entity was different from the last two. Its anger seemed to be directed at Arnold, and yet, he could sense the pain beneath the flaring nostrils. Before Arnold could get a chance to ponder further, he heard a faint whistling sound growing increasingly louder, as though something were heading towards him at a rapid speed. Suddenly, from a distance, fluff of cloud resembling a soggy crumpled up piece of paper came into view. It bulleted towards his window at full speed, as though intended to hit him in particular.

Where did that come from? He thought. He turned to this new face for an explanation. She began to grin.

"For spitball of the day…. _Football Head._ " she said.

Arnold was at first overcome by an unexplained feeling of humiliation, as he wondered if the rest of the passengers on the plane noticed the sinister cloud head taunting him. Why would she do that? He wanted to confront her, and yet he feared what she might do next.

He barely worked up the courage to say something to her when he noticed a change in the cloud's face. The pigtails grew shorter, the scowl welted into a pouting frown, and the eyes broke into tears. It was the same girl, but this face seemed younger than the last he saw. And most importantly, he thought, this face looked shy. Arnold felt a great deal of pity for this anthropomorphized toddler.

The clouds surrounding her grew darker, and a bolt of lightening suddenly shot through the sky. He thought hard, while the rain took on full speed. Something about the look she was giving him seemed all too familiar. She didn't say anything; just looked at him with big eyes. Arnold felt his mouth move against his will, and from the furthest recesses of his mind came a voice that belonged to a young four-year-old boy—it was a cheery voice that exuded optimism.

"Want mine?" he spoke. He didn't recognize his voice, but it sounded eerily familiar, like a dream that is soon forgotten the moment you open your eyes. The girl outside his window nodded her cloud head. His mouth continued moving against his will as he continued the conversation of which he had no recollection. "I like your bow. It's pink like your pants," he said.

She smiled. Arnold wanted to call out to this girl, but suddenly found himself unable to speak. He tried to reach out for her. She wanted his help. He could feel it in his bones. He saw her extending her cloudy arm over to him. Defying all physical possibility, he was surprised to find his own hand penetrating the window and attempting to grasp on to her small hand. Arnold's fingers and the cloud-girl's fingers barely brushed one another when a bolt of lightening struck his hand, causing him to immediately pull away.

Arnold suddenly gasped for air, and he lifted his head.

"Huh? What?" he said in confusion.

" _Tu estaba tiendo un mal sueño_ ," she said, softly.

Much to his surprise, and later embarrassment, he had been nestled against the shoulder of the elderly woman sitting next to him with his mouth wide open. The sound of the thunder outside the plane must have woken him up, and he realized he must have been dreaming this whole time. With a groggy mind, he drunkenly looked around the plane, feeling a bit self-conscious as he felt moisture drip down his chin. Blushing, he wiped the drool running down the corner of his mouth. He noticed another woman across the aisle staring at him pointedly. Was he snoring? He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but much as his dream foreshadowed, it had indeed begun to storm outside.

* * *

Hesitantly, he rang the doorbell.

For a few minutes, he stood there, waiting for someone to answer. _Grandma and Grandpa must have forgotten about me coming_ , he sighed. Just as he turned the doorknob, he was immediately pushed back by a parade of cats and dogs rushing out the door. _Wait a minute,_ he thought. After a delay, a fat pig came waddling after the platoon. Chuckling, Arnold stepped inside.

He looked around for a light switch he knew by memory would be located to the left of the door. Taller now, his arm lowered from their original position and groped the wall until it found the switch. The room immediately illuminated, and he surveyed the familiar layout: the long hallway, the living room to the left, the kitchen further down, and the stairs leading the second floor. He almost believed that the entire boarding house had been abandoned, until he finally heard some shuffling from the living room. A knowing grin grew on his face. He poked around the dark living room until he heard some voices grumbling.

"Shut up Oskar! You'll ruin the surprise!" He heard the voice of an old man.

"When do we get to eat the cake?" a voice with a distinctly Czechoslovakian accent whined back. Smiling, Arnold turned the living room lights on. Heads popped out from every direction of the room, and he could barely comprehend what had happened before they all began together,

"Surprise!"

Ernie emerged from under the side table. Oscar and Suzie stood behind the couch. Mr. Hyuhn unwrapped himself from the curtain, and Grandpa Phil stood behind the wall next to the entrance. Once more in the past two days, Arnold was bombarded by hugs and kisses from every direction.

"Arnold…I hope you don't mind I invited my buddies for poker in your room tonight…hehe!" he heard Oscar explaining.

"Oh Oscar!" scolded Suzie.

"I mean…it's really nice to see you, Arnold. You look just as generous now as you were when you were just a short midget…hehe."

"Oskar!" yelled Susie once again.

"Um…it's ok, Mr. Kokoshka…you can use my room tonight."

"Arnold, I'm likin' the muscles. Have you been lifting weights?" Ernie clapped him on the back of his shoulder,

"Not really weights exactly…"

"Listen kid," Ernie interrupted, "I better see ya at the demolition site next Saturday. Imma knock down my hundredth building. Wouldn't be the same without you,"

"Sure Mr. Potts…wouldn't miss it for the world?"

"Arnold!" yelled Mr. Hyuhn in his familiar Vietnamese accent. "I prepare a song for you while you are away!" Mr. Hyuhn pulled out an acoustic guitar from out of nowhere, and without warning, began in a completely unrecognizable country accent, " _The day's been cold without you, And Oskar's been a pain! But now you're here, and Mai's near, my heart can beat agaaaaaaain!"_

Arnold just blinked a few times.

"Alright, alright, let the poor boy breath! Let's get your things upstairs short man," said Grandpa, clutching Arnold's shoulder with one hand and his abdomen with another, "And let's make it quick! I had a bad tuna sandwich that's just itching to come out any second now."

Though he was excitedly basking in all of the familiar scents and chaos, Arnold couldn't help but feel that something was missing, and he searched for that one voice that remained absent from this otherwise perfect choir.

His sensei, his piano partner, and his stand-in mother for ten years—he was just about to give up hope and ask outright where she was, when a sound resembling the howling of an alley cat could be heard screeching from the kitchen. He turned around slowly, finding himself grinning ear to ear.

"Camp down lady sing this song! Doo da! Doo da!" Grandma Gertie marched down the hall, carrying in a large rectangular cake of her own design, decorated as the American flag. "Camp down lady sing this song! Dum dee do da day!" After setting the cake down on the coffee table for all to gather around, she quietly rested her hand on his shoulder. "Welcome back, Kimba."

* * *

The school bell rang.

"Alright class," began the fifty three year old Sam Rooney, high school English teacher to a room filled with half-asleep juniors. "Before we continue with our lesson on post modern American literature, I just want to take a moment to remind everyone that Ms. Pataki is still welcoming submissions for the school's literary journal…"

" _Ahem!"_ a cough from the back of the room interrupted him.

He sighed. "…and in her words, 'they better have some stinkin' soul…or else.'"

"You got that right," mumbled a voice belonging to a blonde girl slouching in her seat towards the back of the room. Her feet propped up atop her desk, she folded her arms behind her head before continuing, "I don't want to see any more poems titled _'Ode to Roast Beef Sandwiches.'_ "

"Everyone loved it, Helga, so shut up!" yelled a large pink-faced boy sitting in front of her, turning around to face her.

"Alright, Harold…" pleaded their teacher.

"You wanna say that to ol' Betsy, fat-boy?" she growled, waving a fist at the boy in front of her.

Harold gulped and quickly turned back around in his seat. Knowing fully well that he was powerless to defend himself against her formidable fists, he grudgingly mumbled under his breath, " _Madame fortress mommy_ …"

"And as much as I appreciate a good romance, Curly," continued Helga, with tone that was initially flat, but soon escalated into a full on rant, "let's keep princess's name out of all your creepy stories…and keep them rated PG!"

"I'm just trying to make your dreams a reality, Rhonda baby," said a boy with black hair and round glasses, as he slowly began to massage the shoulders of the brunette sitting in front of him, resulting in her yanking her shoulder away and jumping up onto her desk with a horrified look on her face.

"Ugh! Get this freak off of me!" she yelled.

"Gee wilikers," began a large-nosed boy with a country accent, sitting towards the center of the room, "It seems like no one's stories are good enough for Ms. Helga's magazines."

"It's called a _journal_ , Stinky," she retorted.

Rooney, who was still standing in front the room, thinking of how to refocus the class back to the topic at hand, suddenly realized the phone on his desk was ringing. Slouching his shoulders, he headed over to attend whatever issue for which the front office might have been calling him. As he expected, his momentary absence only encouraged more students to join in on the heated discussion over the exclusiveness of Helga's literary journal.

"Well _I_ think your whole journal is rigged," said the brunette, finally having fought off Curly's advances and folding her arms across her chest, "The _only_ poems I every read in there belong to that Cecile girl!"

"Well, Rhonda, _maybe_ that's because she's the only one in this school whose idea of good literature doesn't include a four page diatribe about Marc Jacob's new fall line!"

"That was a great story and you _know_ it!" Rhonda said, standing up.

"Technically," began a Japanese girl seated next to Helga, "What you submitted was an editorial, and not a work of fiction. And besides," she suddenly blushed, "Helga _did_ publish some of Gerald's spoken word poems."

"Thanks Phoebs," said Helga, offering a low five to her compadre.

Rhonda continued, unfazed, "Who _is_ this Cecile girl, anyway? I've never met anyone at our school by that name."

"That's enough!" interrupted Rooney as he hung up the phone and went back to putting an end to his class' daily bantering. "It looks like I have one more announcement before we begin. I just received a call from the principal's office, and it seems like we'll be welcoming a new student today. Principal Wartz wanted to know if anyone is willing to show him around the school for next few days until he gets acclimated."

Not surprisingly, the class overwhelmingly responded with blank stares.

"Come on, guys, it won't be _that_ bad. He's probably got a lot of interesting stories to share from his time spent in San Lorenzo."

And upon uttering those last words, much to Rooney's surprise, two thirds of the classroom gasped in union, as if they all knew something. Suddenly, they seemed to have his attention, but he couldn't figure out why. What could possibly be so shocking about some foreign exchange student?

"Hey, Mr. Rooney," finally spoke a tall black teen with a raspy voice that many girls in his class often described as velvety smooth. "What's this kid's name, if you don't mind me asking…?"

"Oh, well his name's—hold on, I wrote it down." He held the paper up to eye level while squinting at what he scribbled down earlier while on the phone. "It's Arnold…uh…Arnold… _damn it_ , I can't read my own handwriting…"

Before Mr. Rooney could finish deciphering the last name, the doorknob in front of the classroom began to jiggle. Once again, nearly the entire room of students gasped in anticipation. Helga's feet immediately planted back on the floor.

A blonde 17-year-old boy poked his unusually wide head inside. The boy looked around nervously at his classmates, who all stared at him with wide eyes as though he were a ghost exorcised from its grave. Rooney looked him up and down, unable to decipher why this seemingly shy teenaged boy elicited such a presence amongst his peers.

"Arnold?" bumbled the large boy sitting in front of Helga. "Is that…is that really _you_?"

"Yes Harold," the boy shuffling into the classroom responded, smiling. "It's me."

The kid with the raspy voice got up, shaking his head in disbelief, and walked over to Arnold. The two teenage boys both stared at each other for a long time, before breaking out into a long hug. After pulling away, Arnold brought his right hand up to form what, to an untrained eye, would appear to be a mere thumbs-up sign. Smiling, Gerald followed suit, and thus the two jiggled their thumbs against each other, feeling as though no time at all had passed since parting ways five years prior.


	2. Chapter 1: Has AnyoneSeen Helga?

Author's Note: I spent a long time debating on whether Arnold and Helga will have dated before Arnold left for San Lorenzo (as CB intended), but ultimately decided against it for my own story. I'll try to make sure my story eventually explains why that's the case.

CHAPTER ONE:

HAS…ANYONE SEEN HELGA?

A cluster of girls lazily lounged around their lunch table, fingering the baby carrots scattered across their trays, while taking an occasional sip from their cucumber waters. The teens managed to maintain perpetually disinterested expressions at anyone that may pass by, until they were finally approached by a brunette girl dawning a burgundy velvet vest.

"Finally." said a blonde girl sitting at the table. "We were starting to wonder where you went."

"Sorry ladies!" the brunette responded. "I just came to grab my purse!"

"But, aren't you going to sit with us?" said another girl with a squeaky voice.

"Not today Becky." the brunette responded. "I've got other plans."

"Like what." said the blonde.

"Haven't you heard?" the brunette responded. " _Arnold's_ back! I simply _must_ hear all of his _adorable_ jungle tales!" And with that, she grabbed her purse—burgundy, like her vest—and turned away.

"Wait, Rhonda!"

"Au revoir!" she waved without turning back.

"But…who's _Arnold_?"

* * *

Life for the junior class of Hillwood High seemed to pick up right where their sixth grade selves from PS 118 left off many years ago. Arnold's decision to live with his parents that year had been a blow not just to his closest friends, but to an array of people dispersed throughout the city, whom had formed a close kinship with the boy. During their first year without him, the whole class felt an emptiness lurking around them. At first, whenever Rhonda would yell at Curly, or when Stinky and Sid planned their next prank, the kids of PS 118 would look around, waiting for that morally burdened boy to bestow his advice upon them. But when none came, they slowly began to accept the change that had fallen onto their laps. They learned to channel Arnold's voice in their heads, until questioning one's acts or doing the right thing became embedded in their own consciences. In short, Arnold's legacy had lived on. At least for most, it had.

"It was beautiful," Arnold concluded, as he looked around at his old classmates, staring at him, wide-eyed, as though they still could not believe that he was really sitting there in front of them. Though the old P.S. 118 gang had dispersed to an extent over the years, joining their own respective cliques, today, they joined together three lunch tables so that they could all sit together to listen to Arnold tell his tales about the past five years he spent in San Lorenzo.

"Boy howdy, Arnold. Those are some mighty good yarns!"

"Thanks Stinky."

"Sounds like you had a thrilling experience!" chimed in the Japanese girl, pushing up her glasses.

"I really did, Phoebe. And it's all thanks to you guys. All those years ago, you guys all coming to help me find them…I don't even know how to thank you enough!"

"I reckon it was all Ms. Helga's doing, Arnold," Stinky replied.

"Yeah man," said a boy with a gray skullcap sitting next to Stinky, who then pulled out two rather disgruntled looking frogs from the opposite inside pockets of his leather jacket. "Really, I just tagged along so I could find a girlfriend for Sidney."

"Sid, put that thing _away_!" screamed Rhonda.

"I'm ever so certain," continued a cheerful girl with red hair, "Helga was the one who convinced us all to go in the end!"

"You're right, Lila," said Arnold. "In fact, I should really go and talk to her. Has…anyone seen Helga?"

* * *

She paced back and forth in the dimly lit room, kicking away a not-quite-empty bucket that stood in her way until it crashed against the brooms and mops, leaving a them soaked with dirty soap water.

"Arnold…" she snarled, while continuing her pacing. "He thinks he's _so_ cool with his _stupid_ jungle stories that _everyone_ is just eating up! Just waltzing in here like he owns the place. Sheesh. What a _boob_. What a _diva_. _And yet…_ " She paused, and quickly scanned her surroundings before shoving her hand down her shirt and pulling out a golden heart shaped locket. In it was a picture of a ten-year-old Arnold, frozen in time and resting upon her chest for all these years. She swooned, fingering the edge of the frame. "I _love_ him.

"Oh Arnold! Has it really been five years that this heart of mine became a palace to be guarded carefully by stony walls and untamed terrain? Oh my gentle angel, it's only been a few hours since you stepped through that door, and yet you've made me realize that I've become a prisoner in my own kingdom. Foot by foot, your boots poked holes through the cement that formed these walls in which I reside.

"The pinkness of your cheeks relays your perfect humility, as though ignorant of your power over me. Your green eyes have grown only brighter with age, perhaps having drunken the forestry in which you lived for five years, stealing the beauty of your exotic birthplace; Oh Arnold! You walked into homeroom like a mythical giant, and one gaze rendered me paralyzed in an instant!"

Perhaps she would have continued her private ode, except that the last few words were drowned out by the sound of heavy wheezing tickling the back of her neck.

 _kkkkkk hhhhhh kkkkk hhhhhh_

A wheezing that she knew all too well.

 _kkkk hhhhhh_

A wheezing that had to be stopped.

"Uh…hi," spoke an asthmatic male voice.

Growling, she immediately shoved her heart shaped locket back into her blouse. With little hesitation, her left fist snapped upwards and back, until it landed into the familiar flesh and thin metal frames belonging to the young man who had been standing behind her throughout her entire trance. With a soft thud, she heard him crash into the wet brooms and mops, and didn't bother to turn around to see the faint smile forming over his unconscious face as he fell.

Instead she headed towards to door, realizing that the bell rang, and that she would soon be late to her next class. Jiggling the doorknob, she burst out of the janitor's closet and rushed over to her locker, rounding the corner without checking to see who might be walking towards her from the other side.

That was when she felt her body suddenly smash against something rather huge. With little time to process what was happening, she found herself knocked down to the ground, her fall broken only by her bottom and elbows.

"Helga?" said a male voice.

Still sprawled out on the tiles, she looked over to the body towering above her. She surveyed the blue jeans, plaid red button down shirt, and soon the hand that was held out in front her face. Still daydreaming about her love, she absent-mindedly brought her own hand up to accept the assistance, before she finally noticed the face belonging to her savior.

"Arnold?!" She gasped, immediately pulling her hand away. She backed away, groping the wall next to her until she felt the bottom of the drinking fountain. Using it for support, she propped herself back up. She was then left with the task of how to explain her erratic behavior, and began stuttering, "I mean…um…" Desperately, she darted her eyes, looking for an explanation, when something deep inside her instantly clicked. Something she hadn't felt for a very long time. She stood up and looked square into his eyes with a scowl, as though to challenge any reason he may have to give her such a concerned look, before shouting, "Watch where you're going… _football head_!"

She expected to take him aback with her repelling tone. Much to her surprise, his face remained unchanged, except for a slight smirk appearing at the corner of his lips.

"Nice to see you too, Helga."

"Yeah, yeah. _Don't_ try to butter me up and think I'll be all buddy-buddy with you!"

"I wasn't…"

"Because believe it or not, it takes a lot more than knocking her down and pretending to help her up to impress ol' Helga G Pataki!"

"I wasn't pretending to…"

" _Sure_ you weren't. Just like you weren't trying to go around impressing everyone about how you left for _five stinking years_ while the rest of us _wasted_ away in this stupid rat hole…"

"Helga, I…"

"Savoring every damn letter you wrote, thinking maybe— _just maybe—_ you'd miss us enough to finally come back and be with the people who give a crap about you!"

"Wait…you actually read my…"

"But nooooo!" she interrupted again, "You just continued being your selfless football headed self, helping your perfect parents and that stupidly wonderful village!"

"I didn't…"

"And _then,_ as _if_ that wasn't bad _enough,_ you have the _audacity_ to just waltzed into this school, back into our lives, without so much as a phone call to…"

Arnold had had enough.

He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her entire body. At first, Helga's eyes nearly burst out of their sockets, and she found herself speechless. Soon, however, she felt her arms falling limp as a smile slowly appropriated her face, and she entered a state of euphoria. His warm body finally pulled away.

"You know, you haven't changed one bit," he smiled.

"Me? Change…?" she sung, dreamily. " _Never_ …"

"I think we're about to be late for…"

"How could I ever change when everything is as it should be…"

"Helga, I think the bell's about to—"

"I can't buy you your stupid pork rinds, Bob! _Arnold's_ back. You remember Arnold, right? That wonderful, stupid, football headed…"

The bell rang.

Helga realized what she was saying, and what more she could have said had the bell not snapped her back to reality. Thus, in what may be an unusual display of self-control to the average passerby, but what had become a habitual part of Helga's mental therapy, she slapped herself with full force. She snapped at Arnold, her eyes menacing with wild rage, "What are you standing around here for?! You're making me late!"

And with that, she then ran off.

* * *

Throughout the day, as more and more people discovered that the rumors were in fact true—Arnold had returned!—he found himself continuously stopped in the halls, only to be met with unfiltered displays of love, unexpected gifts, and inappropriate questions. By the time the last bell rang, Gerald had to stand between his overwhelmed friend and an onslaught of their classmates—each shouting over one another. Unfazed by the chaos, the dark skinned boy did what any best friend of a local celebrity would do: he stood with a black notebook in his left hand and a pen lodged above his right ear, coolly ushering over individuals he selected from the crowd to come forth to make plans with Arnold—and with him, by extension.

"Alright," he said, holding his palms out. "I've got a bus to catch, so let's wrap things up. Who's next?"

"Oh Arnold!" said Rhonda, shoving her way towards the front, "I simply _have_ to catch you up on the latest fashion in the civilized world. I mean _don't_ get me wrong. Your rugged jeans and boots are simply _adorable_ , but let's face it. We're not in the jungle anymore. Still, I'm glad you traded in that skirt for an actual shirt!"

"It's actually the same—"

"Well, then it's settled. You and I will go shopping this weekend so I can help you get along in more proper social circles."

"Uh…thanks Rhonda." He quickly turned to Gerald, seeking approval.

Gerald flipped through his notebook with a slight frown forming on his face. "Listen princess," he said, turning to Rhonda, "My boy's already going to the movies with Sid and Stinky on Saturday, and Timberly's got him attending her ballet recital on Sunday. If you would _like_ , however, I _can_ pencil you in for the following Saturday."

"But I have tea with the Fitzgeralds that day!"

"Lady, you can take it or leave it."

"Well, I _never_!" she protested.

"Next!"

"Hey Arnold!" shouted Harold, towering over the crowd, "Now that you're back we're going to clean out the Jolly Olley Man's truck and eat all the Mr. McFudgies we can handle until we puke!"

Arnold was about to let Gerald respond to this invitation when they all heard a voice approaching from a distance.

"Oh no you won't!" it shouted. Arnold craned his neck to see a balding man in a tracksuit marching down the hall towards them while glaring intently at Harold. Without shifting his glare from Harold, the man mumbled a quick "Welcome back Arnold."

"Thanks Coach Wittenburg," Arnold cut in.

The middle aged coach growled, continuing to look at Harold, "We are in the middle of football season, Harold, and I will _not_ have my star quarterback screw me over this late in the game!"

"But coooooach!" Harold whined, "I'm gonna work off all the calories during practice _anyway_!"

"I don't wanna hear _anything_ from you _fat boy_ until we finally beat P.S. 119 in the championship!"

"Okay, fiiiiiiine! But after that, I want all the McFudgies I can eat!"

"Deal!" The coach led his star athlete away to finalize their agreements, but not without turning around one last time to finally look over at Arnold. "Swim season starts in a few months. I'm counting on you to be there, Arnold."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, coach," he said, before he then turned to Gerald, who looked back to the crowd without a pause.

"Next!"

* * *

"Man!" said Gerald, as Arnold walked him to the bus. "It seems like _everybody_ wants to hang out with you, Arnold! We've got the museum with Pea Pod Kid, a monster truck derby with Harold, and Dino Land with Eugene and Sheena—which, let me tell you, is a _lot_ more fun when you're older!"

"I guess they're all just as excited as I am about me coming back."

"I'm telling you man, at this rate, our calendars are going to be full for the next three months!"

Arnold laughed as Gerald flipped through his black notebook. They approached an empty bench as they waited for the bus. Arnold looked down, pondering.

"How's Helga been?"

Gerald came to a halt, and turned to look at his friend with wide eyes. " _Helga?!"_ he shouted, incredulously. "As in Helga G Pataki. Since when do you care about _her_?"

"Well…I just wanna see how she's doing, Gerald. She _is_ the one who found my parents."

"Listen Arnold," Gerald said, placing a hand on Arnold's shoulder. "You spent two years trying to thank her for it, and what did you get? More yelling, more hot glue on your seat, and more nicknames until you were twelve!"

"Come on, Gerald. I know deep down she's not _that_ bad."

"Man, you haven't changed one bit!"

"What do you mean?"

"You're _always_ tryna see the good people."

"Well…I believe everyone has some good in them."

"Whatever you say, man," Gerald sighed, as the bus pulled up to their stop. "You sure you're not coming? I think your Grandpa forgot about you, man."

"Nah, I'm sure he's just a slow driver."

"Later Arnold. Call me if you get stranded here. I can always steal Jamie-O's moped."

"Why does he still live with you guys, again?"

* * *

"Grandpa, did you _just_ wake up?" Arnold yelled into his cellphone, as he sat on the front steps leading to the entrance of his school. "No…that's okay. I'll just take the next bus. You want me to wait here? Are you sure you're okay to drive? No, I didn't mean it _that_ way, Grandpa. You're not _old._ Alright…okay! I'm waiting. See ya Grandpa."

He hung up, and looked around. The streets were relatively deserted, except for a homeless man siting on a bench across the street, in front of the library. Arnold looked over at him, and noticed a tall bag of French bread poking out from under his dirty jacket…into which his left hand was buried. Surrounding him were a swarm of pigeons, and Arnold realized the man was breaking off bits of his bread and tossing them over to his avian guests. The pigeons were restless, darting from his shoulder to the arm of the bench and then over to the tree branches shading the gathering. One had even perched itself on his red ski cap, shortly before flying off to the nearest tree, leaving behind white droppings to ooze down his cap.

The man then poked his shitted head up and looked directly at Arnold before breaking out into an unnaturally wide and toothless smile. He chuckled at Arnold's visible panic.

Gulping, Arnold quickly smiled back before darting his gaze. He noticed a rolled up newspaper near by and picked it up. Brushing the dirt off of it, he saw that it was his school's newsletter, 'Hillwood High Gazette.' He casually flipped through the pages, stopping every once and a while to catch up on what has been happening at his school.

One headline, "Student Fights the Man for Artistic Freedom," showed a picture of a wildly angry Eugene, waving his fragile fists at the camera, paneled against the school's stock photo of a disgruntled Principle Wartz. Arnold skimmed the article, raising an eyebrow upon learning that Eugene was planning to direct a controversial rendition of _Great Expectations_ intended to contain partial nudity, before being totally shut down by Wartz after its first rehearsal.

Rhonda was head of the fashion club, and elections for class president were going to start soon. _Gerald should run for president_ , he smiled, reflecting on how he helped him win the same position in fourth grade.

He was about to put the paper down, when a noisy black and white photo plastered on the last page caught his eye: It was Helga, in a wrestling uniform, sprawled dominantly on top of a large kid their age. She had him pinned down to the mat. The title of the article read, "Pataki to Take Hillwood to the Championship." Arnold noticed that her face bore its usual angry scowl.

Arnold thought back to the last conversation they had before he left the country. They were twelve years old.

* * *

She sat crouched under the shadow of two towering trash bins, having clandestinely snuck away from the rest of her class during recess. Guarded between her twelve-year-old chest and knees, a pink notebook lay open, and she furiously scribbled into its pages with an equally pink ballpoint pen.

" _Oh Arnold…_ " she looked around one last time to make sure no one was watching. "You smiled at me by the tetherball pole, and thus pulling my strings while I dance for you like some dumb puppet that curses you away from my embrace. With every chuckle that parts your lips, I'm compelled to shower you with ruthless insults. If only I weren't such a prisoner to my own fears. If only I could have been braver that day in the jungle when you finally admitted your long kept feelings for me, instead of fearing that your words were insincere.

"Oh Arnold! I can no longer see the anguish bottled up in your eyes. I swear by grave of pigeon man that at the end of recess, I will bandage your wounded heart and admit that I also like you-like you. Nay! What I'm really trying to say is that I Lo—"

"Helga?"

Her heart stopped. She saw his sunshine face approach her with a look of concern painting his eyes.

" _Arnold!?_ " Whipping her notebook behind her back, her body snapped upward until she was standing. Unable to swallow the persona that had been so deeply ingrained in her subconscious since she was a little girl, she felt her eyebrow furrow angrily at her beloved before snarling, "I mean…what do _you_ want, _football head_."

"I…actually just wanted to talk to you," he said, relatively unaffected by years of learning to brace himself against her.

"Well…I _don't_ have all day." she stuttered, struggling to maintain an air of arrogance.

"Okay, well maybe I'll just talk to you some other…"

"No! Wait!" she yelled back until he turned back around. _Did that sound too desperate?_ she asked herself. Deciding yes, she did some damage control by rolling her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "I mean…I _guess_ I could spare you some time. I mean, how bad could it possibly be to spend a few minutes with a weird hair boy like yourself."

"Okay," he smiled. "I wanted to tell you that I'm moving to San Lorenzo, to live with my parents."

"Wait… _what_." her mouth was completely agape.

"Yeah, they still have a lot of work to do down there, and they really want to spend more time with me. And…I don't know. I thought it might be kinda cool."

"Yeah! If you like spending all day in a smelly village with a bunch of…jungle freaks!"

"Come on Helga, you were there and you know it wasn't that bad."

"Well…who cares what I think anyway?"

" _I_ do. You know, you never give me a chance…"

"Just forget about that!"

"Helga…"

"Just… _go_!" She continued despite his gasp. "Get the hell out of here and live your dream life with your jungle family. I could care _less_!"

Then, a look of anger overcame Arnold's face.

"Well…fine! If you don't care, then I don't care either! You know, I tried to come here thinking that maybe you'd actually be sad that I was going, but you know what, Helga? I guess I was wrong about you. You're not the girl I keep thinking you are."

"No! And I'll never be…wait!" Suddenly, she realized he was walking away from her…for good.

"What." He snapped, turning around.

"Arnold…I'm sorry. I-I-What I wanted to say was…"

"I'm listening."

"I…hope…you…have…a good time."

* * *

Arnold had been sitting on the steps leading to the entrance of Hillwood High School for fifteen minutes, when he suddenly felt something soft and moist hit the back of his head. He heard a very familiar snicker coming from behind, and turned around to see Helga Pataki lean figure towering above him with a straw in one hand.

"Didn't think I'd ever forget your spitball of the day, did you football head?" she smiled as she threw her backpack on the steps next to him, before settling down herself. She sat with her legs slightly apart, leaning back on her elbows. Her chin and chest poked upwards towards the sun.


	3. Chapter 2: Wait, Isn't That Phoebe?

Author's Note:

1) Thank you so much for the positive feedback so far! I feel a lot more confident about continuing this story :)

2) As you can see, in the last chapter, I tried to keep things light and fun (compared to the prologue). I was afraid I was boring my readers will all the crazy detail! In this chapter, I revert a bit back into the somber tone with which I started my story. How do you guys feel about this style? What would you like to see more of in future chapters?

3) The beginning might seem totally random, but I promise it'll make sense in later chapters!

4) Also, how do you feel about the Helga x Arnold dynamic so far? Too cliché? Any comments?

CHAPTER TWO

WAIT, ISN'T THAT PHOEBE?

If you look into its eyes as it happens-if you really pay attention-you'll notice the glossy film that creeps onto its cornea. It's that moment when a dumb beast suddenly becomes aware of its own mortality. It wonders, where the hell are all the years of my life?

It's a look he'd seen over and over again when he made his occasional trips over to the slaughterhouse. Every once and a while, someone will ask for the good stuff, and it was up to him to make the drive upstate, past the farm, and over to the massive warehouse where shy goats, chicken, pigs, and calves would lounge around like the stupid creatures they were—that is, until that moment. At that moment, of course, they'd have all the answers in the universe sitting at the tips of their tongues.

Accompanied by a worker—a black Jamaican man with a rugged beard-he went to the back and shimmied between the little spaces they kept around the wooden pens, stepping over piles of feces and bird feathers, until he finally made it to the goats.

They stood there—all six of them, waiting for a change in their mundane existence. One in particular noticed the sweaty red headed man with a green apron make his way over to their pen.

" _Baaaaaaaah,_ " he alerted his pen mates.

The gang looked sharp, unsure of what was to come next. Every week at least, they lose one of their friends. He or she is dragged out of the pen, and then never comes back. Of course, they were all too senseless to contemplate the phenomenon.

"That one." The man pointed to the very goat that alerted his pen mates. He saw the worker heard three out of the pen. "I only want one."

"I know."

"What do you need the others for?"

"Dey can't be alone when dey die. Makes em nervous, man," the worker responded in a strong Jamaican accent.

They were in a large room inside the slaughterhouse. The entire inner perimeter was lined with railing and multiple pulleys, with belts hanging down from them. The man with the green apron watched the worker tie a belt around the goat's ankle. The goat immediately began wailing, and no matter how many times he'd seen this ritual, neither the man in the green apron, nor the worker could block the sound out of his heart. As the worker yanked the other end of the belt, the goat found himself flying up towards the ceiling, hanging upside down. It stopped wailing and its eyes became glossy.

But Marty Green was not in the room when the moment happened. He received a phone call just as the goat began to ascend. Stepping outside into the hallway, he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his green apron, and was not surprised to see who was calling him ten minutes before their shift was about to start.

"What is it, Harold."

"Um…so I can't come in to work today."

"Why am I not surprised," he mumbled. "Alright Berman, lay it on me."

" _Ahem._ Yeah…I'm not feeling too good Mr. Green. I think I have an appendicitis!"

"Harold. We both know you don't have appendicitis. Look, don't make me tell your rabbi you were lying again. You know I'm not very good with religious folk." Marty heard an exaggerated sigh from the other end.

"Alriiiiiight. I guess I don't have an appendicitis," Harold admitted. "But I have a really good excuse! I promise!"

"Sure you do."

"They just opened up a new ride at Dino Land and everyone is going including Sid and Stinky…"

"Yeah, yeah. Knock yourself out."

"…and Arnold and Gerald."

"Better enjoy bein' a kid while it lasts."

"Thanks Mr. Green! Oh my God, I'm gonna ride the Raptor of Doom so many times, I puke all over the place! Haha!"

"See you TOMORROW, Harold."

"Later, Mr. Green."

Marty was about to hang up the phone when his heart stopped for a second.

"Wait…did you say _Arnold_?!"

* * *

"I can't believe Harold rode the Raptor of Doom eleven times last night," said Arnold, as he and Gerald rummaged their lockers after the final bell of the day.

"My boy has some crazy gag reflexes," said Gerald, reaching up towards the top shelf of his locker before pulling out a sleek black leather case, small enough to fit inside his hands.

Arnold watched him reach inside the case. Pinching the jewel encrusted hinges, Gerald allowed the casing to slide off, revealing a pair of circular glasses that were tinted blue.

" _Cool shades!"_ Arnold stared at them in awe.

"Not just any shades," explained Gerald. "These are a one of a kind pair owned by none other than Dude Willington."

"The trumpet player?" asked Arnold, as he and Gerald broke free from their lockers and began heading towards the back exit of their school.

"The one and only."

"How'd you get those?" Arnold asked.

"My uncle got em for me last Christmas. He's part of a jazz band that plays tributes to all of Dude Willington's work. They're playing tonight by the pier. You're coming, right?"

"Yeah! That sounds awesome."

As Arnold and Gerald reached the exit, they began passing by two gigantic doors leading to the gym room, when Gerald came to a sudden halt. Walking slightly behind him, Arnold nearly fell back when he bumped into his now perspiring friend.

Gerald turned around to look at Arnold with panicking eyes. "Can we…leave through the front entrance?" he whispered. Arnold tried to look over Gerald's shoulder to see what was going on, but Gerald yanked the collar of his plaid shirt. "Don't look now, man!" he pleaded.

Arnold rolled his eyes and gently pushed his friend aside. That's when he noticed a levitating pile of books emerging from the library and heading in their direction. If one looked passed the books, they might notice the gripping white knuckles struggling to hold on to the sheer weight of reading material over a pair of petite legs, and perhaps they might hear the high pitched grunts that were so distinct to its owner.

"Wait, isn't that Phoebe?" said Arnold.

"Oh… _is it_? _Phoebe_? Like, _Phoebe Hyderdaal_? Oh man, I didn't even notice her probably cuz I never think about her…hehe. Well, she looks really busy right now. We should probably just give her some space and walk in the opposite direction from where we came…hehe…"

"Gerald," Arnold crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you avoiding Phoebe?"

"What?" Gerald's jaw dropped in an exaggerated fashion. " _Me_? Avoid _Phoebe_? You, my friend, have mistaken me for a much simpler man who can't smooth talk the ladies."

"Why don't you just ask her to come to the pier with us?"

"I can't just _ask her!_ "

"Why not?"

"She'll say no!"

"How could you possibly know that before you—"

"H-hey Phoebe!" Gerald chirped, while silencing Arnold's judgment by stomping on his foot.

" _Ow_!" Arnold whispered, as he elbowed his friend. Before he could protest any further, Arnold felt his body shoved in the opposite direction. He slowly backed away and inched towards to gym room to give Gerald some space.

"Are you leaving, Arnold?" Phoebe asked, her short legs running towards them. Gerald shot him a panicked glare that screamed _Get lost!_

"Y-yeah!" Arnold stuttered, taking a hint. "I just have a lot of school work to catch up on…you know, been out of the country for a while…"

"School work? In the gym room?" she questioned, furrowing her eyebrows through her glasses.

"Uh…yeah! Got tons of phys ed to catch up on…you know, we don't get much exercise in the village! So I'll uh…just see myself out? Great. Later, Phoebs!"

Watching his friend bumble like an idiot, Gerald smacked his forehead and began shaking his head, mortified.

* * *

" _Whew!_ " Arnold exhaled, as he slowly inched backwards while closing the doors to the gym room, located next to the bleachers. As he bent forward to catch his breath, he heard the distant sound of a sports whistle and realized that the gym room was not at all empty as he first suspected. Just as he was about to turn around, he heard a female voice…and its very familiar Jersey accent.

"Let's go boys! This aint a huggin fest!"

A blonde middle-aged woman yelled across the room between furious blows into a whistle that alternately went from resting on the jacket of her all pink tracksuit to being shoved between her red lips. Next to where the whistle rested on her jacket, and embroidered with gold thread into the left breast pocket, was the name "Tish."

She was known by most, however, as the _other_ Coach Wittenburg.

Before anyone could catch him, Arnold snuck behind the bleachers where he could see the backs of the rest of the team members. Peering through the cracks, he rolled his eyes when he recognized the two mid weight wrestlers on the mat.

They seemed to be concentrating all of their energies towards squeezing the soul out of one another. The look of childish anger was so heavily present on their faces that Arnold began to suspect that the two wrestlers have perhaps entirely forgotten about wrestling.

"Oh come on!" whined Coach Wittenburg at one of the boys. "Ludwig! Grab Wolfgang's leg. Gimme _something_!"

Ludwig considered taking his coach's advice, but then he had a much better idea. He slacked his embrace of death and drew is arms away. It seemed to Arnold that Ludwig might actually be sensible enough to attack Wolfgang from a different vantage point, but was not surprised to see him instead exercise a tactic that was far removed from the sport of wrestling.

"Ow!" yelled Wolfgang. "Let go, you asshole!"

Much to Coach's Wittenburg's dismay, Ludwig had begun yanking Wolfgang's hair.

"Screw you, Wolfgang!" Ludwig yelled, grabbing handfuls of ex-best friend's blond hair. "I told you never to talk to my sister!"

"Oh, we hardly did any _talking_ ," Wolfgang smirked, right before experiencing a punch into his left eye.

Coach Wittenburg threw her hands up in the air in disbelief. "Ayayay!" she yelled to no one in particular, as she walked over to the two delirious wrestlers who were, at this point, throwing indiscriminate punches into the air that occasionally managed to hit their opponent. She bent down, and snatched the backs of their uniform, effortlessly pulling the two apart. "Alright, get the hell off my mat. You two are reporting to Wartz's office tomorrow." She then turned towards the bleachers. Arnold gulped, hoping she couldn't see him. "Is there anyone in this room that can restore my faith in the male species?" she sighed.

"Let me," said a voice.

Arnold watched the back of one team member stand up and noisily walk down the steps.

"Alright Donny, get down there." As the two hundred and seventy pound ape of a teen assemble his gear in front of his teammates, she turned back towards the bleachers. "Who wants to go up against Donny?"

Little to her surprise, the undeserving baboons that she was stuck coaching all year merely fidgeted in their seats, responding with overwhelming silence. After several minutes of pondering, Tish finally thought of an eloquent way to explain to her baboons that their first practice of the year will end early today because at her age, self-medication meant succumbing to a midday tequila. She was just about to deliver her plead when the gym room door slammed open.

Fearing that whoever just entered the gym might see him, Arnold crouched further under the shadow of the bleachers. He watched the slender legs stride past him towards the front of the room. He stood up to see who it was, but one of the teens sitting on the bleachers moved their backpacks next to their feet, thus blocking Arnold's view of the mat.

 _Thank you lordy Jesus_ , Coach thought, as she watched her much anticipated player arrive tardy as usual, before turning back to the mat. "I think I found you an opponent, Donny."

"Wait…you want me to fight _her_?" yelled the ape.

Before Coach could respond, the new opponent spoke up.

"You gotta problem with that, bucko?" said a voice that Arnold immediately recognized.

"I aint fightin no girl," said Donny.

"No, you aint fightin a girl…" Coach responded, curtly.

"You're fightin Helga G. Pataki," the new voice cut in.

"You're _wrestling_ ," Coach continued. "Now quit whining and the two of you gear up!"

Frustrated by his obstructed view behind the bleachers, Arnold emerged back towards the door. He was sure no one would notice him as all eyes seemed to be glued to the mat, where a two hundred and seventy pound ape sized up his five-foot-seven female competition.

Unlike the last fight, both wrestlers displayed a much stronger understanding of their sport. At first, her sheer strength seemed to help Helga hold her own against her much bigger rival. Gritting her teeth, she manage to push against him as she struggled to stay on her feet. Soon, however, she felt the soles of her sneakers slipping. Afraid that she was about to plunge, she immediately ducked to try to reach for his ankle. She yanked it towards her with all her might and began feeling his legs wobble. _Perfect_ , she thought. She was about to get up to give him a final push, when she felt two hands wrap around her waist.

Before she knew it, she felt her feet lift off the ground until Donny had her dangling above him. She grabbed his shoulders and tried to pry herself off. She knew he was very close to being able to throw her onto the mat. Trying to throw him off balance, she wrapped her arms around his head, and pushed her body forward. That's when she felt his face pressed against her chest.

"Nice rack," said his muffled voice.

Growling, Helga wrapped a leg around his and snapped it back, catching him by surprise. She felt herself fall forward, landing on him. Realizing that time was of the essence, she quickly held him down so that he couldn't get up.

"One!" Coach Wittenburg started the count.

Donny struggled to push Helga off to no avail.

"Two!"

He grabbed her knees, and was just about to push her off. Helga struggled to dig her feet under his body to lock him in, but began faltering. The entire room held its breath.

"Three!"

"Yes!"

Everyone in the room turned around.

They watched the boy standing near the entrance of the gym quickly clap his hand over his mouth as he froze like a baby capuchin caught between two alligators.

"Arnold…?" said Helga over her shoulder while still sitting on her rival.

"Uh…hi, Helga." He smiled nervously at her, before noticing the middle aged woman in the pink tracksuit peering at him. He gulped. "H-hello Mrs. Wittenburg…"

"That's _Coach_ Wittenburg to you," she corrected.

"Right!" Arnold slowly inched backwards towards the door. "I was just looking for my…uh….actually, I probably left it in my locker…so I should get going now! Nice seeing you Mrs…Coach…Wittenburg."

* * *

"Anyway, if you're not doing anything tonight…maybe you can stop by the pier?"

"I would love to, Gerald!" replied the young Japanese girl, appreciating the quiet time she was finally getting in the hallway with her rather elusive classmate before being interrupted. "What time is your uncle perf—Oh! Arnold!"

Gerald begrudgingly turned around, only to see his best friend burst out of gym room with a look of stark panic in his eyes while slamming the door shut behind him.

Still catching his breath, Arnold looked over at a confused Gerald. Then at a confused Phoebe. Then back at Gerald.

"Don't…ask."

* * *

After Phoebe left, Arnold and Gerald continued to down the halls when they came across the library. Just as they were about to pass the room, Arnold noticed a flyer taped onto the glass door. Without giving it much thought at the time, he tore it off before shoving it into his pocket.

* * *

Roy carried his trumpet case like it was an old pet. He sat down with the rest of the band at the center of a makeshift stage that baked in the scent of hotdogs and Bavarian pecans. He listened to the grainy sound of his own shoes rubbing against the concrete, and at the same time felt the euphoric sensation creep into his bones as they turned on the lights. People began to crowd around them—some knew about them performing, but most happened to be walking passed them only to allow their curiosity to draw them towards the concrete seats.

After slapping a few mosquitos off his arm, he opened the case to pull out his instrument. Though his bones were quickly warming up, the trumpet lay limp in his hands. He perched the mouthpiece against his lips and blew some hot, wet air into the metal tunnel, until it felt like nothing more than another limb. The light tapping of the percussion signaled the whole gang, and Roy got right into position.

Towards the front, rested Tay and his grand piano, both glorious in age. Roy watched Tay play a few uplifting notes before releasing his sonorous voice through his mustached lips. He sang an old tune that had practically carried them into adulthood back in the 70's. And as Roy waited for his cue, he thought back to that era when he first grew into the performer he became today. It was a good time: he and his buddies fumbling with their vintage jazz back in the garage while his much cooler brother and friends got their groove on at the disco.

As Tay melted the audience with those same lyrics that continued to melt the old gang, Roy noticed a young boy walk passed them. Maybe13 or 14 years of age, his clothing was all black and he sported orange hair that stuck up like the mane of a macaw. Hooked to his spiked belt was a music player blasting terrible screaming shrills that must have come down from dear Lucifer himself. Roy shook his head. Kids these days wouldn't know real music if it hit them on the back of their heads, he thought.

 _I can never see you with no other man! Baby, am I in love? I don't understand!_

As Tay finished up the verse, Roy took his cue and got up with his trumpet. Just as he stood up, he looked over at the audience and a broad smile crept up on his face.

He saw standing towards the front in wet grass, his favorite nephew jamming to their performance. Next to him stood an equally enthusiastic boy with blond hair and a wide head. Both bobbed their heads and snapped their fingers as Roy performed his solo part. The rest of the audience also cheered as he played around with his mute to create fantastic and unexpected melodies.

On an impulse, Roy stepped off the stage and reached for his nephew. Gerald began to laugh as Roy dragged him onto the stage. One of the saxophone players in the band handed his instrument over to the young boy, knowing fully well how skilled the boy was at playing it.

Gerald had been attending his uncle's performances for years, and sometimes, when his dad was feeling especially lenient, he was allowed to accompany them to the hotels where they were commissioned, and play with them on stage.

Much like Roy, Gerald immediately felt the weight of the instrument in his hand tug at his soul. He breathed his warm air into the brass funnel, appropriating the previous player's own juices until the saxophone began to obey the rhythm of Gerald's heart. The audience went wild.

One whistle in particular stood out. Gerald looked over to the audience and saw his best friend blowing between two fingers in his mouth. He turned to one of the musicians and seemed to whisper something to their ear. The musician snuck off stage for a moment before running back to his seat and handing something over to Gerald. Grinning, Gerald walked over to his friend. He looked back at his uncle, who nodded in approval.

Arnold was surprised to see his best friend walk over to him from the stage with a mischievous look on his face. As he saw Gerald's hand reaching over for him, he felt his heart jump. He had just begun to pull his arm away when he felt Gerald's fingers locked around his wrists. Unable to escape, Arnold felt himself being tugged away from the audience and towards the stage.

Arnold found himself stumbling into the spot light, surrounded by the 23 man-band known by most hotel dwellers and a few devoted 81.7 FM late night jazz listeners as Dude's dudes. To his left was Tay Donalds, a famous pianist who started off as a teen working for the Dude himself, carrying the band's instruments to and from their tour bus, to a world famous musician who was eventually commissioned to the be official pianist for the White House before finally retiring in the city, only to join this fine group of men whom shared an interest in Dude's work just like him.

To Arnold's right, stood his best friend who began a set of chords on his instrument. His lips were sealed tightly around the sax's mouthpiece, but the smirk on his face was undeniable. Arnold watched his friend, for a split second, wink at his direction. He watched him pull the mouthpiece away and let the saxophone hang around his neck.

The entire audience looked over at the blonde boy who found himself caught in the center of his friend's uncle's band's performance. He didn't need to turn around to know that the entire band behind him was also watching him, silently waiting for him to make his move. It was then that Arnold looked down and saw that Gerald had handed him something as he pulled him onto that stage. This whole time, his fingers had been wrapped around a small oblong object. He realized he was holding a harmonica.

Arnold gulped and at first couldn't bring himself to comprehend the situation he was in. He shot Gerald a panicked look. Gerald warmly smiled and was about to take over for his stage frightened friend, when a familiar melody coming from the other direction struck through the silence.

All eyes turned to Tay, who began a tune that wasn't normally played by the Dude's dudes. In fact, it was a melody that didn't belong to Mr. Willington at all. But that didn't make it any less well known. Even a young boy with orange spikes passing by, pulled out his ear buds when he heard the familiar music born straight out of the soul of this city. Tay leaned over to his microphone and began to sing in his deep voice…

 _Darling, you left my heart_

 _In pieces on the floor_

Arnold broke into a smile.

 _So tell me why shouldn't I_

 _Break something of yours?_

It didn't take long for the entire trumpet and saxophone line to join in right on cue. Before Arnold knew what he was doing, he felt the harmonica brush against his lips, and he too joined the band.

 _Darling, POW! I'll smash em all._

When the rest of the music died down, Arnold found himself exploding into an impromptu harmonica solo that was never part of the original song, but had found a natural place in this Dude's dudes cover. The audience went wild. Arnold seemed to have a natural charisma on stage.

* * *

"Man," he sighed as the band began to pack up its things. "Roy has the coolest job in the world."

"That's my uncle for you," replied Gerald, before perching his ears at the growing sound of a cane tapping against the floor.

Arnold and Gerald looked up and saw a smiling Tay Donalds limping towards them. Before either of them could say anything, Tay reached over and placed a heavy hand over Arnold's shoulder.

"Well, well, well," he said, shaking his head. "If it isn't Phil and Gertie's grandson."

"Wait…you know my grandparents?" Arnold asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course!" Tay replied. "How else would I have known that I was in the presence of die hard Dino Spumoni fan?"

"Oh yeah! How _did_ you know?"

"You grandparents stop by the hotel every once and a while to listen to us perform. Bless her heart, Gertie talk about you all the time. I'd be a monkey's uncle if I didn't recognize you from all those photos."

Arnold looked down bashfully.

"If you stop by with young Gerald, here," Tay continued, "You know we always have room on our stage for one more."

Just as Tay left, Arnold heard a familiar high pitched voice, and saw Phoebe Hyderdaal approach them, beaming with joy.

"That was wonderful Arnold and Gerald!" she exclaimed.

"Thanks Phoebs," replied Gerald. "I hope this whole thing wasn't too crazy for you. I know this isn't really your scene."

"Are you kidding?" she asked. "Watching you on stage was…" She blushed before continuing, "Well, it was _exhilarating_!"

Arnold had known Gerald long enough not to be fooled by the dark skin covering up a readily apparent blush that was travelling up his cheeks.

"Yeah? Well…maybe we could get together and you could listen to me play…"

"I'd love that!" she chirped.

"How about the day after tomorrow? After school?"

Suddenly, Phoebe looked down and frowned.

"I'd love to…except the day after tomorrow is Friday, and they're introducing the candidates for class president."

"So?" Gerald snorted. "Look, Phoebs, I know you love to stay on top of what's happening at school, but this is _class president_ for crying out loud! No one cares who the class president is! Besides, it's probably just going to be Harold running as Harry Balls again."

"Well maybe people should care more about what goes on at our school!" Phoebe snapped back, much to Arnold and Gerald's surprise, before storming off.

Gerald turned to his friend with an incredulous look on his face.

"Did you hear what I just heard?" he asked.

"I heard," replied Arnold. "But you know, she does have a point."

"Oh man, you too? Look, I'm all for joining clubs and all that, but class president is the biggest joke and you know it. Well maybe you don't since you haven't been year in ages, but let me break it down for you: the class president never does anything and no one cares about that election."

"Well, maybe it's about time someone serious runs."

"Like who, Arnold? Who could possibly hate their lives so much that they would actually run for class president of the eleventh grade?"

"How about you?"

Gerald's jaw dropped.

"Me?! You want _me_ to run? Are you out of your mind?"

"Look, you were a great president in the fourth grade. And I know we're not kids anymore, but I think maybe the school could use a real president. You know, someone who cares about what's happening."

"Come on man," Gerald whined. "I can't believe you're trying to convince me do this."

Arnold paused, and thought long and hard about how to convince his friend to reach his fullest potential. How to fulfill the position he was destined to take on. How to be the leader he was naturally born to be. Then it came to him.

"Phoebe would be impressed," Arnold smirked.

Gerald looked at him ready to retort any argument his friend might bring up, but then found his mind shut midsentence.

"How do I sign up?"

Smiling, Arnold pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. It was a flyer announcing that candidate positions were open for class president.


	4. Chapter 3: Get it Together Sam Rooney

CHAPTER 3

GET IT TOGETHER SAM ROONEY

At around 6:02 in the stupid morning, he acknowledged the ambulatory siren that was his alarm clock. Instead of pressing snooze, his hand slipped, and the thing flew off his bedside table, crashing against the wall-and continued wailing. He finally yanked the covers off, and, sidestepping his slippers, lunged at the damn thing. He was tempted to smash it repeatedly against the wall until, somewhere deep inside its mechanical bodice, it could feel the same pain it caused him every Monday through Friday with the exception of holidays.

He pressed the _Off_ button, and arranged it back on his table with stiff hands. Finally, he put on his slippers, and walked over to the bathroom to take a piss. When he looked into the mirror, he saw before him a fifty-three year old man with deep brown L'Oreal hair, betrayed by the white prickles poking through his chin. His eyelids were practically bald, making him look about as tired as he felt. _Get it together Sam Rooney_ , he thought to himself. He opened his mouth and mused at the leftover potato skin deteriorating between his molars from last night. His teeth were yellow, just like his personality.

After his morning routine, he walked over to the kitchen, and saw Rob standing with his back turned to him, by the stove, flipping an omelet while the percolator brewed some crap coffee into two cups.

That was just like Rob, he thought. He was always looking at the bright side of things, and acting like the world was only as beautiful as you made it out to be. It didn't matter that kids were dying in Palestine, or whatever. Happiness was always two blocks down the corner for Rob.

Rooney sighed. He walked over to Rob and wrapped his arms around his waist, kissing him on the cheek. Rob's positivity was exactly what he needed each morning to get him through the day.

"Sorry if I'm a bit prickly," muttered Rooney, as Rob jerked away.

"Rough morning?"

"Nah…just tired. Everything makes me tired. The paper makes me tired. Helga makes me tired. Everything makes me tired."

"Helga…oh boy. How _is_ my 'special' poet doing?" Rob put air quotes around the word 'special.' Not out sarcasm. Rob was never sarcastic. He was too damn concerned about hurting people's feelings to ever be caustic.

"She's been a special pain in the ass," Rooney hissed back.

"What's wrong this time?"

"She's been a complete Joseph Stalin about her journal. She doesn't consider anyone's work to be good enough for it."

"Is anyone's work good enough for it?"

"Well…no. The stuff these kids submit…it's shit. It's all shit. Except for her shit. Her shit is gold. And I can't get her to come out of the closet about it."

"Ah…yes. Our relationship in a nutshell," Rob sighed, emphatically.

"And the other day, some of her classmates started questioning her about it. They asked about Cecile. Really Guantanamo-ing her ass…"

"Guantanamo… _ing_?"

"If it wasn't for that new kid barging in during the interrogation session, they might have really gotten it out of her."

"A new kid? How exciting!"

"I can't keep protecting her damn reputation," Rooney continued, "It's not fair. The world deserves to know about her."

"I did it for two years. Trust me, you can do it."

"That's…totally different."

"Wait…how?"

"I read her shit from back then. It was all Shakespearean mimicry."

"Oh, I would hardly call it…"

"Now, her poetry and stories are so…real. And if people knew what she was capable of, they'd…" Rooney noticed Rob raising his eyebrows. "Oh, who am I kidding. They'd make fun of her. They'd completely waterboard her."

"You really need to stop watching the news," Rob said with a smile. Before his woeful partner could respond, he got up and headed over to the sink while gulping down the last of his coffee. "Time to fill those empty vessels with knowledge!"

 _He's doing this to bug me,_ thought Rooney. Rooney looked down at his untouched coffee. Sighing, he walked over to the sink, grabbed the least crusty thermos, and ran it under some water.

"More like, time to give those miserable sinners a reality check about prepositions."

"Ah yes, and a brand new empty vessel has been added to the bunch in your case!" Rob joked back.

"Eh? Oh yeah…Arnold. You really ought to meet him. Kid's a regular Woodrow Wilson…just like you."

As Rob rushed out the door, Rooney gathered his things and his thoughts.

"Farewell, Mr. Rooney!" Rob yelled as he closed the door behind him.

"Later, _Mr. Simmons_ ," Rooney yelled back sarcastically at their apartment door.

Rooney eventually himself made his way over to leave. Just as he grabbed the doorknob, it jiggled on its own. The door swung open, revealing a somewhat ecstatic looking fifth grade teacher.

"This new kid of yours…did he have a…somewhat 'special' shaped head?" Once again, he put the word 'special' in air quotes.

* * *

Author's Note:

Sorry about the very late update! I just finished my first semester in med school, and have hardly had time to work on my writing. This one is short, mostly because I don't want to keep you guys waiting so long. Hope you like what I did with Mr. Simmon's character! Any requests for future chapters?


	5. Chapter 4: Poorly Drawn Testicles

Author's Note: I simply cannot capture the awesomeness that is Mr. Huynh's character in words. I hope anyone reading this chapter can imagine him saying all of this with his glorious Vietnamese accent. For reference, go on YouTube and look up "mr. huynh hates lint and is not your mother." Seriously…it's the best thing you'll see today.

CHAPTER 4

POORLY DRAWN TESTICLES

"Arnold, man, come _on_!" yelled the 17-year-old boy, waiting outside the his best friend's boarding house.

"Just a minute!" shouted a muffled voice coming from behind the closed front door. Gerald could overhear the sound of grown men yelling at the tops of their voices, interrupted occasionally by pleas undoubtedly belonging to his best friend. Rolling his eyes, he reached for the door knob to rescue his buddy.

Just as he was opening the door, however, he heard a loud pig's squeal, and with no warning at all, Gerald found himself pummeled to the ground. In the moments following, he could hear the distant victory squeals of a pig that escaped its Shawshank redemption.

 ***A few minutes earlier, inside the boarding house…***

"Arnold! This organic bamboo stick shampoo came all the way from Vietnam two weeks ago, and now…. _it's all gone_!" yelled the slightly mustached man in his thickly East Asian accent.

Arnold had almost made it out the door on time for once, when in very typical boarding house fashion, he reluctantly found himself caught in the middle of two disgruntled adult men just as he was about to leave.

"I…uh…" muttered Arnold, as his backpack strap slid down his left shoulder.

"Oh come on _Mr. Big Shot Internet Man_ , it's not even from Vietnam!" yelled back the Czechoslovakian tenant, emerging downstairs with only a towel loosely wrapped around his pot belly, as he left behind wet footprints on the wooden floor. Oskar shoved the bottle in Arnold's free hand.

"It says right on the website! 'Vietnamese Bamboo Stick Shampoo _and conditione_ r' straight from the fields of my country!'"

"Mr. Huynh, where did you order this shampoo from?" asked Arnold, while examining the empty bottle.

"I order it from a website called _eBay_. I can't keep asking Mai to help me order things online. She is not _my mother_!"

"Then he shouldn't have left it in the tub for all of us to use!" yelled back the half naked and dripping Oskar whose hair looked unusually bouncy that day. "Tell him Arnold."

Arnold turned to face the defendent. "Look, first of all, Mr. Kakoshka, even though Mr. Huynh accidentally left his bottle in the tub, that doesn't give you the right use someone else's things without their permission," he began, becoming somewhat flustered as he half-heartedly adjusted to his old lifestyle of mollifying an array never ending disruptions. He then turned slightly to the accuser before continuing, "And second of all, Mr. Huynh, you might want to be more careful about what you order, because, um…it says right here that it's 'Made in Mexico.'" Arnold flipped the bottle over as the two men squinted their eyes to see the fine print embedded on its bottom revealing what Arnold had indeed claimed. For a moment, it seemed as though the two men had reached an entente, as their beady squints, ready to lash out at the other, softened into a somewhat less offensive but mutual distrust. For a moment.

"You are taking _Oskar's_ side!" Mr. Huynh turned his angry gaze towards the 17-year-old teen.

"No! I—"

"Ah ha!" gloated Mr. Kakoshka, as his towel nearly slipped off. "I knew Arnold always liked me most…"

"I do _not_ like you the most, Mr. Kokashka. I mean…it's not that I _don't_ like you…"

"I knew it! Arnold like _me_ more!" retorted Mr. Huynh.

"That's not what I'm saying!"

Before Arnold could come up with a diplomatic way to explain his total impartiality towards either of their plights, without inciting the Viet-Czechoslovakian War of the 21st Century, the three shouting men came to a sudden halt, and looked up towards the ceiling.

The wooden panels above them began to ominously shake. A loud pig's squeal from upstairs shattered through the air, accompanied by the sound of heavy shoes clomping against the ceiling. At once, a 450-pound semi-housebroken boar fled for its life down a set of creaking stairs—stairs that were truly ill-constructed to bear such an assault—and sprinted towards the front door. In the process of escaping his life threatening situation, the pig knocked over, in a single sweep, two very grown men and their much younger and gentler arbiter.

But the three tenants of this boarding house were not the only victims to this massive swine's frenzied escape. Waiting outside the door was an unsuspecting Gerald Johansson, already fed up with the Arnold's tardiness. He had barely started turning the doorknob before suddenly finding himself thrashed onto the ground by some sort of untamed animal, brandishing only a single indication of being a domesticated pet—a collar with a round dangling plate that read "Abner." The vanquishing pig's wailing could be heard all the way across town.

Neither Gerald nor the other men had time to contemplate how they all ended up on the ground, as all four heads turned back towards the stairs, where a wild old women came running down with a butcher's knife in her right hand.

"Come back here you foul creature!" yelled Pookie, as she chased after her lifelong arch nemesis, and in the spirit, dawning a head-to-toe hunting uniform, finished off with an Indiana Jones hat—and black eye makeup smeared on each cheek.

Disregarding the casualties induced by Hurricane Abner, she stepped over the four men—still sprawled all over the floor like knocked over bowling pins—and followed the muddy footsteps left behind by the savage fiend. She skipped the four front steps leading to the front entrance of the building, in a single jump, and landed cleanly on the sidewalk before beginning her wild chase. Right as she made the jump from the doorstep, a little palm leaf had slipped out of her hat. It stalled for a moment—hovering in the air like a snowflake—before swaying back and forth and plopping down next to Arnold's feet. How a leaf ended up in her hat, none of them knew. But all four men turned their heads towards the floor and stared at the thing.

* * *

The two teens were still running towards their stop just as the city bus pulled up to the curve.

"Come on!" yelled Gerald. "I can't be late today!"

* * *

Murray, who had been doing this thankless job for over twenty years, started changing gears behind the wheel, and disregarding the shouting teens approaching the bus from outside. He was about to close the door on them, when the faint sound of children snickering diverted his attention.

A few pre-adolescent boys and girls sitting near the front had their hands clasped over their mouths while gawking and pointing at the driver's prosthetic leg. He looked down and saw two ten-year-old boys slipping away from him with uncapped permanent markers in each of their hands. He looked down and yelped at his newly vandalized plastic leg; in bold black ink was a pair of low hanging testicles.

"Why you little—" he fruitlessly yelled after the two boys, now securely escaped to the back of the bus.

Fortunately for Arnold and Gerald, those poorly drawn testicles gave them just enough time to rush through the doors and slide their bus pass through the machine slot before the bus could drive off to its next stop.

"Did you practice what you're going to say?" asked Arnold, when they finally caught their breath.

"Arnold, my man, don't worry about me. I got this. With my cool persona and you as my campaign manager, there's no _way_ we won't win this election."

"Alright, but just to be sure, let's rehearse again."

Gerald cleared his throat.

"My fellow Hillwood classmates," he began, "In a time when the lunches served in our cafeteria contain fewer basic food groups than a bowl of instant beef ramen…when our lockers are so old that we can't even open half of them anymore…and when the stink inside the boy's restroom makes it impossible to spend more than 30 seconds in there…I ask you, who will you look up to? Who will step up to the man, and demand our basic rights? Who will defeat the tyranny of Principal Wartz who has somehow, through a series of quite frankly sketchy promotions, managed to follow us since we were in the first grade? Who amongst you will fight for the little man? It is…I.

"I say to you today, my fellow students, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still…have a dream—too dramatic?"

"Nah…" Arnold smiled enthusiastically.

By this point, the two boys had every passenger's approving attention. Before Gerald could finish his speech, however, the bus came to its next stop. A new set of passengers made their way inside, including a blonde pigtailed teen and her half-Asian friend. Gerald gulped as he saw who was getting on the bus.

"Oh…hey Phoebe!" he squeaked, as they walked passed his seat.

"Hi Gerald," responded Phoebe, who paused just long enough for him to see her cold, well rehearsed expression.

"You know…" he began, trying to figure out a way to break the tension between them, "they're…um…announcing the candidates for class president today during announcements."

"I know," she responded without looking at him, "I'm surprised you bothered to come early enough to watch, since class presidents are clearly such a waste of time."

"Phoebe, I'm sorry. I really don't know why you care so much about who becomes the class president, but I respect it. And I think you'll see pretty soon that I also care about this school."

"Is that so?" she responded. "How?"

"Oh…you'll see." Gerald smiled, mentally preparing for how he was going to win her over.

* * *

The black teen adjusted a blue tie that pulled together a sharply coordinated dark gray suit, in front of the bathroom mirror inside the AV backroom. Earlier that morning, he had been fidgeting with his tie in the hall outside the makeshift studio where they filmed the daily morning announcements. Unfortunately for him, he found himself sitting next to Harold Bergman, who proudly flaunted a wrinkled football jersey garnished by a week old mustard stain splayed over his belly, topped off with and a backwards cap. Harold had been excitedly detailing his plan to sneak in "the A-word" during his speech, when Gerald realized that his tie had come undone. Ignoring his enthusiastic friend, he rushed into the AV room, straight for the mirror in the backroom to fix it, thus failing to see the other candidates still making their way towards the waiting area. Most of the awaiting contenders looked up at a television screen mounted in the hallway to watch the live morning announcements proceed as they waited to be called into the room.

* * *

The students of Hillwood High sat miserably in their homerooms, and—of those who were not napping through announcements—stared vacantly at the television screens present in each room displaying their principal settling into his seat behind the news desk. As soon as he realized he was already on the air, he coughed nervously, and began reading aloud from a stack of visibly displayed notecards spread out before him.

"Good morning Hillwood High. I hope you are all having a respectable Friday morning," he began. "A few announcements today before you embark on your mandatory public school education: the first is that the school production of Mama Mia!, directed by none other than our Eugene Horowitz, is now holding auditions in the gym room next Monday after classes. I am _told_ that this one will _not_ be containing any lewd display of body parts, so please feel free to audition _fully clothed_.

"Next, we are expecting the publication of our next edition of the school literary journal by end of next week, so that will be something to look forward to…uh…for those of you interested in fields pertaining to _literary_ …things. And next we have…uh…" Some students sighed at the typical disruption, in which a slightly panicked look arises on their announcer's face as they watched him shuffle feverishly through his notecards. One very long second later, the sound of labored wheezing could be heard distantly on screen. One third of a face crept into the shot, and its yellow sleeved arm presented a new stack to Principal Wartz. It turned its face towards the camera, perhaps stunned at unexpectedly being caught on air.

"Uh…hi," it said, apologetically, while straining to inhale.

"Ah…here we are." Principle Wartz grabbed the cards from his hand and ushered him off, only to find the poor boy frozen in place…wheezing away in front of the camera. "That's enough Brainy…get back to your…uh…corner. Ahem. As I was saying," Principal Wartz pulled out the next notecards, and slid on his reading glasses "It is time to introduce you to the candidates running for class president. Let us begin with the freshman class."

One by one, different names were called out, and individual students from the waiting area outside the AV room made their way inside, gave their speeches, and left. Some kept their speeches short and simple, while others made Wartz wish he had screened them before allowing these hooligans to be on his respectable news program.

 ***Ten minutes later…***

"And that concludes your speech, young lad…" Principal Wartz grabbed the reluctant sophomore candidate's arm and dragged the boy off the screen.

But before he could be fully tamed, the boy freed his arm and lunged forward, making his way back to the camera. "And remember…" he spoke quickly through his chocolate covered mouth, "if you vote for me, I _promise_ candy from the vending machine a discounted price…!" The last part of his campaign promise was heard off screen as the rest of his small physique was immediately wrestled out of the room.

"And now," continued a newly disheveled Wartz, "We'll announce candidates for the junior class. Our first candidate is… _Gerald Johansson_." A few seconds later, he turned his head towards the AV room and cleared his throat loudly. "I said…the first candidate is Mr. Johanss—"

"I'm here!" Gerald rushed out of the backroom and straight to the area where they were shooting. "My fellow Hillwood classmates," he began, a bit rushed at first, but soon falling into his usual smooth self, "I have a dream. I have a dream that one day we will rise to our fullest potential. I have a dream that we can walk freely in the hall without the oppressive necessity of a hall pass. I have a dream that lunches will satisfy our taste buds and our souls. Let freedom ring—"

" _Mr. Johansson_ ," interrupted Wartz, "we need to announce the other candidates. Can you please hurry this up."

Gerald cleared his throat. "Uh…right. If you vote for me, I promise to be the best president this school has seen!" He smiled quickly before the camera, and raised thumbs up, before leaving Wartz to announce the next candidate.

"And next we have…oh jeez…Mr. Harold…Balls."

"It's _Harry_ Balls!" Gerald heard the sound of Harold's voice as he left the studio.

Just as Gerald was backing away, he suddenly bumped into something in hall. His heart jumped when he turned around to see who it was.

"Uh…hey Phoebe!"

"Hi, Gerald," she stepped back, and making an unusual hollow clapping noise against the tiled floor. He looked down and realized this was his first time seeing her in heels. Too flustered by her unexpected presence, he failed to notice the other changes from her usual attire—today consisting of a stiff pencil skirt and a button down blouse.

"What are you doing outside of class?"

"Well I—"

"Wait…" Gerald grinned widely when he realized why she must have come all the way from their homeroom class to see him. "You saw my speech! Did you like it? I wanted to show you how much I care about the school…" Before he could continue his uninhibited rambling, he saw her hand go up to silence him. Phoebe had been ignoring him for the most part, and her attention seemed drawn towards the television.

"And our last candidate running for the junior class," announced Principal Wartz on the television screen mounted above them, "…is Ms. Phoebe Heyerdahl."

Phoebe turned to Gerald, apologetically. "I…also care about this school." she said before turning away and rushing into the studio—leaving a completely flabbergasted Gerald Johansson standing in the hallway, unable to process this turn of events.

Before he could make anything of what he just heard, he felt a hand slap against his back.

"Awwwww yeah! Did you _see_ me?" laughed a triumphant Harold Berman, grabbing Gerald by the shoulders, forcing the boy to turn his attention towards his pink face. Harold began jumping up and down while laughing between bites of a twinkie he somehow acquired. "I said…the _A-word_! I said the A-word on the school announcements! I've been wanting to do that since…before I can remember! This is…the best day ever! Don't you think?"

* * *

Author's Note x2: Sorry for the incredibly overdue update! Just finished year one of med school, and am trying to balance studying and working on my passions at the same time. I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. I'm very excited about the next one. I've been planning it out for quite some you have any suggestions or requests for certain characters or things you want to see in future chapters, let me know! And as always, I absolutely love to hear your thoughts, so please write a quick review when your done reading this!


	6. Chapter 5: Rage Against the Machine

CHAPTER 5

RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE

The sun shone through her eyes—a single shadow of blue light in the darkness—emanating her as she watched him, hitting against his naked neck.

He made his way past rows and rows of empty pews before collapsing onto the wooden bench. A loud cross toward above him. His head buried in his hands, he tried his best to avert his gaze.

 _It's time to forgive, Tucker_ , she thought.

Her whisper travelled across the sea from whatever remained of the desolated Palestine, and reached his ear. He looked up and glared at her smiling face through bloodshot eyes.

He dared her to tell him to pray again. He dared her to try and chastise him.

 _Oh Tucker_ , she thought. _No one ever said it would be easy, Tucker_.

"Fuck you, Helen." His voice cut through the dusty air of the damp, poorly ventilated cathedral. The sun light beaming through her stained glass figure burned his skin, and he groped the bench, scooting away, trying to escape her punishment. "I said, _fuck you_!" he yelled again, this time less sure of himself.

"Jeez Louise! Would ya watch your language? We're in a damn church here!"

"Huh?" He jumped up, wondering if the St. Helen's window had _actually_ spoken to him—with a Jersey accent no less—or if he was so jacked up, that his mind finally turned on him.

" _Over here_ , you ape," the voice came again.

He turned around and saw a blonde woman with bright red lipstick and a pink track suite standing in the aisle, frowning at him, tapping her feet against the grimy floor.

" _Tish_ ," he spat.

"What, am I not your mother no more?" she rolled her eyes, before walking towards her son and then also collapsing down on the bench to join him.

"My mother? Oh, please," he mumbled, looking away.

"Look, I didn't come here so you could _chastise_ me."

"I know. You came here so you can convince me to move in with you after all this is over."

"Well I can't imagine why you'd wanna live with your _father_." She looked up. Mother and son began staring at the stained glass window, at Helena's condescending smile. "And who the hell are you yelling at?" she finally asked. "You're high again, aren't you?"

"No…" he said. " _You're_ drunk."

"I told you a hundred times, Tucker, baby. Mommy _can't_ get drunk from a few mimosas."

"What are you, _high_?"

* * *

"What?"

"We can't put that there!"

"Why not?"

"Arnold, man, look." He walked up to the water fountain and pressed down on the lever, only to reveal that its faulty fixing resulted in a trajectory that headed straight towards the poster hanging next to it—squirting water all over their hard work. He then shot his friend a look that said, _See, I told you_!

After removing the poster, Arnold repositioned it, while his friend watched from a few feet away.

"Now, _that_ looks great!" exclaimed Gerald, as he stood from a distance, examining a large poster he and his best friend spent hours the night before designing and printing.

Above the water fountain, a stenciled working of Gerald's face looked out into the distance. The candidate's face and background were painted over with shades of red, navy blue, and beige. The bottom read, in large light blue font: DREAM.

The two boys stood back and admired their work.

"It definitely has class," Arnold replied, smiling.

Holding up a large stack of identical copies, the campaigning boys went to work. They marched around the entire school, mounting up their "DREAM" poster to lockers, classroom doors, and bulletin boards, until there was just one final spot left. Possibly, the most heavily trafficked place in the school.

Arnold and Gerald headed over to the vending machines inside the cafeteria. The two of them approached the machine, and began evenly spreading out their printed ad, carefully taping it down along the edges.

Just as they finished cutting the tape, the six hundred pound apparatus violently began to shake. The boys looked at one another inquisitively. It vigorously shook again.

The two juniors looked down and came across a seemingly unexpected sight: sprawled over the cafeteria floor was lanky, pale skinned boy with long dark hair tousled behind his ears. Though his hair had not seen a barber in over a year, it was normally upstaged by brown creamy goo smeared around the corners of his mouth, similar to the to those present on his white shirt. From the torn sleeves emerged two long, thin arms—one of which was presently jammed up the machine's food dispenser…its fingers just out of reach from a row of chocolate McChewy bars.

" _Chocolate boy_?!" the two juniors yelled in unison.

"Hey guys!" the boy smiled, attempting to shake their hand, before yelping in pain when he remembered that his entire right arm was trapped within an appliance. He thought hard for a moment, before glancing at his unobstructed, _left_ arm. His eyes lit up, and he offered them the free hand.

Arnold began an awkward handshake with the fallen boy, at which point Gerald noticed something dangling from his wrist.

"What do you got there, Chocolate boy?" he asked.

"Oh this?" the boy waved his arm up, proudly displaying a bright blue rubber bracelet.

Arnold and Gerald grabbed his hand, and squinted at the wording embedded into the bracelet.

"Heyerdahl…for president," Gerald read the words out loud. He flipped the bracelet around to see another set of words printed on the back. He gasped. " _Bob's Cell Phone Emporium_?" He immediately shot a look of panic towards his best friend.

"Where exactly did you get this?" Arnold asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"There giving them out by the track field!" the imprisoned boy explained, "You better get there fast. They're selling like hot cakes!"

"Chocolate boy," began Arnold, "Aren't you also running for president of you class? Why are you even wearing this?"

"It…uh…looked cool?"

"Come on, Arnold! We gotta check this out!" yelled Gerald.

The two boys released the accessorized hand, and started rushing towards the exit doors of the lunch hall.

"See ya Chocolate boy!" they yelled.

"See ya! Wait…don't leave me! I could really use a hand here! Hehe….'hand.' No pun intended…Wait…guys…?"

* * *

Along the entrance of the high school track field stood a blonde girl with low hanging pigtails—little bushels of yellow straw that seemed to grow out of a gray skull cap wrapped snugly around her head—behind a white foldable table that was finally void of merchandise after two hours of heavy trafficking. Surrounding her was a dwindling crowd of students, hanging around, many admiring their newly acquired blue bracelets. She kicked away a large empty cardboard box sitting near her feet, and began disassembling the table, ready to head home.

She squinted towards the sun for a while, and then turned her gaze towards her school building, sitting a distance away from the field. It was then that she noticed what appeared to be two boys clumsily running from that very direction towards the track field where she stood. She smiled.

"Well look what the cat dragged in," she snickered, when they finally approached her. Neither boy responded immediately. They were hunched over, still catching their breath. She then began in a tone of exaggerated innocence, "I _really_ hate to burst your bubble, but we are _fresh_ out of these one of a kind campaign bracelets. They're such a popular item this season! You know…unlike those shitty posters I saw all around the school?"

Arnold stood up and glared at her. He puffed out his chest, and walked very slowly towards the girl that was taunting him.

She was caught by surprise, seeing him walking towards her so boldly. Her heart fluttered for a moment, before she immediately straightened out her own back in a fruitless attempt to compete with his height. He came so close, she could feel static electricity in the small distance between the tip of his nose her forehead.

"So you're Phoebe's campaign manager, huh?" he spoke.

"Looks like it…" She sneered.

"Guess that makes me your competition…" he raised a daring eyebrow, while the faintest of smiles crept up on his face.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat.

 _Where is this coming from?_ she thought, panicking. _Get it together, Helga ol' girl! He's just trying to throw off your game._

She scowled.

"Competition? You? Please, I've crushed bigger dipshits than you in my sleep!"

"Is that so?"

"Y-yes."

"Then I guess you wouldn't mind if we made things a bit… _interesting_."

"Um…Arnold, what are you _doing_?" Gerald interrupted.

The two duelers ignored their friend's protest.

"Do you _really_ wanna bet against someone like me…. _football head_?" Helga asked, becoming intrigued.

"Sure do."

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

Arnold smirked. "If Phoebe wins this election, then I'll carry around your wrestling gear at all your games for a month."

"For the rest of the _season_ ," she corrected.

Arnold smiled at her suggestion. "Deal."

"And in the unlikely scenario that Gerald-O wins…?" she pressed on.

"Then you have to talk to Phoebe about going out on a date with Gerald."

" _Arnold_! Are you out of your mind?!" Gerald jumped at him, his eyes nearly bugged right out of their sockets.

"Just one date," Arnold continued, maintaining eye contact with his foe. "That's all. Promise me that you'll at least talk to her." Arnold pleaded to Helga, who rolled her eyes.

"It'll hardly take any convincing, but…sure. _Deal_." She extended her hand.

Just when Arnold was about to accept her handshake, he was nearly knocked over to the ground by something rushing passed him.

"Sorry, Arnold!" yelled Harold Bergman, without turning around.

That's when the two blondes noticed a commotion erupting a few feet away. Both turned their heads towards the crowd of students gathering around a tall, dark haired boy approaching the track field. Arnold and Helga rushed over to join the crowd forming around him.

* * *

Much like Helga, this boy also wore a skull cap, through which little locks of straight black hair swept over his eyes, at least partially obstructing his vision at all times. To complete his look, he wore a casual leather jacket over a band t-shirt, along with a pair of torn up jeans.

"Is it true?" asked Rhonda, shoving her way to the front.

"You got it doll face," the boy responded, coolly.

"What's going on?" asked Arnold, as he and Helga finally made their way towards their classmate. "What do you got there, Sid?"

The boy reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and pulled out a small, clear, Ziploc bag half filed with what appeared to be a few grams of ground up grass.

"No. Way." Gerald spoke up, shaking his head incredulously. "That's not…what I think it is, _is it_?"

"That's right," responded Sid. "You all are looking at some genuine, one hundred percent real…. _Crowe_ grass."

The entire crowd gasped in union.

"Oh please…" Helga rolled her eyes. "Let me guess, you ripped that off of one of the seniors? Yeah…I'm calling a fake."

"It's real Helga!" Sid protested.

"Oh yeah? How do you know?"

"Because! I…uh…it cost me a hundred bucks! That's how I know!"

"Oh Sid," she shook her head, sympathetically. "You poor, dumb kid."

"Hey, screw you, you bit—"

"Hey!" Arnold suddenly interrupted. "Can…anyone tell me what _Crowe_ grass is?" Just then, as though he had committed the lewdest of crimes, the entire gathering stared at Arnold with shocked looks on their faces. "…What?" he looked around.

"You've never heard of _Crowe_ grass?" Sid frantically exclaimed, grabbing Arnold by his shoulders and staring at him, utterly horrified. "Did they teach you _anything_ in that jungle school of yours?"

"I was actually homescho—"

"Crowe grass," Sid continued on his rant, "is only the greatest, most euphoric experience _ever_ known to mankind."

"Wait…are we talking about…is this just _weed_?" Arnold asked, with a confused look on his face.

Sid's eyes widened.

" _Just weed_?!" he shrieked.

"Oooh boy," Helga rolled her eyes, knowing fully well what was to come next—and that she wouldn't be getting home any time soon. " _Here_ we go…"

Author's Note: I truly appreciate the feedback I've received on this story. Some of your comments were absolutely lovely :') This, btw, is not the chapter I had anticipated writing next. I'm saving that story for the next chapter. Either way, I hope you enjoyed. As always, please let me know what you thought


	7. Chapter 6: The Legend of Crowe Grass

Chapter 6:

 _The Legend of Crowe Grass_

" _Just weed_?" Sid shrieked, his eyes visibly widening in shock behind his long bangs. He held out the bag within an inch of Arnold's nose, giving him a chance to see up close what he clearly could not see from afar. "What sits in this bag has been organically cultivated to _utter perfection_ by one family—a single family that devoted _generations_ to the craft of achieving the perfect high! So no, Arnold. It's not 'just weed,'" he said, emphatically, as he put his fingers up in air quotes. "It's…uh…an _art_."

"An art," Arnold repeated, flatly.

"Yes, Arnold, an art," Sin continued. "One, might I inform you, that's been _jealously_ guarded for over fifty years. This stuff is nearly impossible to come by."

" _Exactly_ ," Helga pointed out.

"Jealously guarded…?" Arnold raised an eyebrow, partly out of skepticism, but also from growing intrigue.

"Jealously guarded…" Sid began. He looked to his left, and then to his right as though to make sure the coast was clear, allowing for a pause that lasted just long enough to have everyone on their toes, "…by the ghost of Ernest T Crowe."

They all gasped in unison.

Sid turned to the African American teen standing in the corner, casually awaiting his cue. "My friend Gerald here is the keeper of the tale. _Take it away, Gerald._ "

All eyes were on Gerald as he brushed the dust off his shoulder and strided over to his awaiting audience.

"The legend…of _Crowe_ grass," the sagely boy began, with his cool, raspy voice, waving his arm in the air like a maestro, and drawing their noses inward with each breath.

"It all started in Ireland nearly two hundred years ago, where a family of potato farmers by the name of _Crowe_ were barely scraping by amidst one of the greatest famines they had ever seen. In their last hope for survival, the Crowes left their impoverished village behind, and traveled across the ocean to make a better life for themselves in a new land they had just heard of, known as _America_.

"Though many called this the land of opportunity, times had been hard on the Crowes, who travelled from town to town, working as indentured servants, hoping they might one day get back on their feet.

"Then, one day, they happened to pass through the outskirts of none other than _this very city_ , when their carriage unexpectedly broke down. Since it was nightfall, the family decided to camp out for the night, and repair the damage in the morning. Eugene Crowe, the eldest son, had been out searching for firewood when he came across a cannabis leaf like nothing he had ever seen before. A few minutes later, by the campfire, Eugene took a few puffs of this unusual plant, and experienced a clarity of mind that he surpassed any high he had ever known. That's when he knew…the Crowes were going to be rich.

"For years, the Crowe family built up their farm— _some of which was on the backs of my ancestors, might I add—_ and brought their harvest down to a science. From just the right amount of sunlight, to the optimal storage temperatures—the Crows spent years perfecting their cannabis. Each generation would hand down their secrets to the next. That is, of course, until _1962—_ "

"What a load of crap," Helga rolled her eyes.

" _Let him finish!_ " Rhonda yelled back, before returning her attention to Gerald. "Tell us what happened in 1962."

"It was a hot summer day in the middle of July," Gerald continued. "Eugene Crowe V had been working the fields all day since the crack of dawn when he finally wound up his things in the evening and headed inside to cool off. That's when he saw, for the first time in his life, an angel sent from heavens, pouring him a glass of icy cold lemonade. What he was looking at, in fact, was the new maid his family hired that morning. Her name was _Darla_.

"Eugene and Darla hit it off right away, and sure enough, the two became smitten in puppy love. There was just one problem, though: Darla was black, and laws at that time still forbade the two from being seen together in public.

"In fear of their love being revealed, Eugene and Darla would sneak off and spend their evenings hiding in his family's barn. It was there that she would tell him about her brother's civil rights work, and Eugene would share with her his family's farming secrets. For years they kindled their secret love, while the civil rights movement slowly but surely spread like wildfire. It seemed as though things were finally looking up for the two of them, and Eugene finally summed up the courage to propose to his soulmate, and make their love public. That night, around 8 o'clock, when he and Darla usually met inside the barn, Eugene was on his way there when his family called him over to sit down by the fireplace with them. That's where he noticed his cousin Edith sitting down, all dressed up, like she had been waiting for him all day.

"Eugene's family sat down with him and told him of their plan to marry him off to his first cousin. They wanted to keep the business in the family, of course.

"Considering that he had never told his family about Darla, Eugene was speechless and found himself caught in a whirlwind of wedding planning for a marriage he could never agree to. I guess you can say that he was in luck, because indeed he would never have to.

"On the night of the engagement, Edith arrived early and went looking for her new fiancé-to-be. She strolled around the field, calling his name out, when she finally heard a few voices coming from inside her in laws' barn. She poked her head inside and gasped at the sight before her.

"Edith was furious! She couldn't believe that her cousin had been sneaking around with another woman—a _negro_ no less! Why... _she_ was supposed to his wife, not her! In a fit of jealous rage, she quietly snuck out, grabbed a barrel of fuel, and with the mere flick of an old cigarette, she set the entire estate on fire. Not a soul survived as the estate burned to the grounds, leaving behind a pile of ashes and a totally untouched field of perfect weed."

Gerald paused, and looked around at the suspenseful faces about him.

"So what?" Helga broke the silence. "There's no one left on the farm. Should be pretty easy to steal some grass."

All eyes turned back to Gerald for an explanation.

"Oh, many have tried," he responded with a smile, as though he had been waiting for someone to ask that very question. "But few return alive."

The crowd gasped again.

"They say," he continued, "that to this day, anyone who trespasses the land will, within minutes, see a burning torch approach them, floating in the air, as though carried by the wind. That's his first warning. Next, they'll try to run away but their shoes will grow stuck to the ground, gluing them to that very site while they call out for help in vain. _And last_ , just as they feel the burning flames inches away from their skin, they'll hear his high pitched maniacal laughter, signalling that the end is near.

"Ah, many have tried to escape! But most are never seen nor heard from again. They were killed by…the _ghost of Eugene Crowe_!"

Gerald's performance was instantly met with an outstanding applause from his peers.

* * *

Clayton Ellis pushed through the swing door and entered his kingdom of aged beers, pint glasses, and black and white photographs of a young Micky Kaline during his baseball glory days. Empowered by his little trinkets and by the pungent smell of yeast, Ellis staired in sympathy at his empty bar. He soaked up the site of the empty chairs turned up against the table, grimy as ever from years of wear and tear. _I really gotta give those a good cleaning_ , he thought to himself, _but for now, a nice little wipe down'll do_.

As he wiped away the dust with his dirty rag, he suddenly heard the bell jingling over the door, and listened to the heavy footsteps of his first customer-soft but burdened _thuds_ -making their way over to his counter. He tried to finish up quickly, but soon he heard the man sharply inhale through his nostrils, signalling to him that he was impatiently awaiting service. Ellis casually tossed his rag over his right shoulder, and made his way over to behind the bar.

"What'll it be?" he asked, as he stood behind the deeply stained slab of wood protecting him like a jealous lover for the last twenty years he had been tending this place. On its other side, sat a man in his mid-50's or so, with hair receding back, and taken over by gray patches. The man kept his head buried in his arms, refusing to look up. Ellis mused at his matching tracksuit, and wondered if the man before him had an athletic bone left in his body.

"A pint," the man finally mumbled.

"One pint comin' up," Ellis responded, as he grabbed a glass dangling from its hook against the wall.

Ellis watched the man poke his head up, revealing thick, curly brown eyebrows curtaining a pair of tired eyes. The man said nothing but took half-intentioned sips from his glass, staring past the bartender with a glossy look about him.

"Er...everything good, coach?" Ellis finally asked.

"Don't ever get married," the man said bluntly, without breaking his forlorned gaze.

"Already married to the bar. Got no room for women in my life."

The man smiled a bit at this.

"Good...You'll never win against a woman."

"Win, huh? I take it your marriage was kind of a game."

"A game," the repeated, chortling. "She made it her life goal to win that game. Whether it was table hockey, or badminton, or who gets custody of our son, all she ever did was try to beat me. Win win win win win! Winning is all they do best!"

"No kidding?"

The man grunted and fell back into his daze, as he grabbed his glass a dunked down a few more sips. In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Ellis hesitantly looked around for the remote and turned on the small television mounted up above his baseball mural. The 6 o'clock news would start soon.

Then the doorbell jingled again, and this time a pair of young teenaged boys walked in with backpacks, as though they had just gotten out of school.

"Hey! No kids-oh, it's just you, Gerald. You's alright here. Say...who's your buddy?"

* * *

"Are you sure we're allowed here?" Arnold asked, as he and his best friend walked over to the shabby building with the painted sign hanging above reading, 'Clay's Tavern.'

"Arnold, man, I'm telling you. I've been coming here with Jaimie -O for years since he turned 21. This guy's cool. Besides, we're just here to play pool."

"Pity," Arnold smirked. "You know how much I _love_ me some alcohol!"

" _Love me some alcohol_? Arnold, please for the love of all that is good, don't ever say that again."

"Eh….I tried."

The two walked in, and were immediately scolded for doing so.

"Hey!" A mustached man with jet black hair parted to the side yelled from behind the counter. "No kids-" Gerald waved over to him and smiled. Upon realizing who it was, the man's stern face softened into a friendly smile.

"Oh, it's just you, Gerald! You's alright here."

"Know what Ellis, you's alright here too!"

"Ah...you're alright, I'm alright. Say….who's your buddy?"

"Oh him?" Gerald walked over to the bar, and recalled that he had brought a guest. "Ellis, I'd like you to meet my best friend Arnold."

"Hey Arnold! How you doin'? You's alright, man?"

"I'm doing alright. How about yourself, Ellis?"

"Ayyyy….I'm alright," he smiled broadly as he generously shook the boy's hand. He turned to Gerald and leaned in closely. "I can tell your friend here's a heavy drinker," he whispered loud enough for Arnold to hear. "So I'll do you's a favor and switch his drink out with a chocolate malt shake, eh? How about that!"

"See?" Arnold elbowed Gerald in the gut. "This guy get's me!"

"Course I get you!" Ellis laughed. "You's a trouble maker. Knew it as soon as you walked in. Don't let him take the wheel Gerald!"

As Ellis fixed them some drinks, Arnold turned to Gerald and whispered, "Hey….isn't that guy sitting over there Coach Whittenburg?"

Gerald turned over and squinted his eyes.

"Nah…"

Arnold and Gerald hung out in the back, enjoying their shakes, and playing a game of pool. Although they had just been fooling around, Arnold found himself in the lead, and was just about to take his last shot. He leaned in closely to the table, and adjusted his cue. Just two balls remained on the table, and if he adjusted his angle _just so_ , he could pivot his cue ball in such a way as to cause each ball to ricochet off one another and land in their respective pockets. He held his breath and took an irritatingly long time calibrating his stick. Finally, just as he was about make his move…

"Boo," a female voice whispered in his ear. Arnold jumped, causing the cue ball to veer off course and fly straight off the table.

"Shit! Helga!"

"Nice to see you too, football head," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Helga, I'm so sorry! I just didn't see you there."

"Don't apologize. I just came by to see how easily I could throw off your game. Turns out…..pretty easy."

"Hey...that's not very nice," Arnold responded.

"I thought you were my competition? Don't think I'm supposed to be nice," she smiled, teasingly.

Arnold loosened up a bit.

"Well...Gerald and I came here to get away from all the election madness."

"Good," Helga responded, while standing on her tippy toes to grab a cue stick off the shelf. "Cuz the last thing I wanna hear right now is the 57th revision of Phoebe's latest election speech."

"Aw...I'm sure it's not that bad," Arnold said as he walked around and grabbed each ball out of its pocket to arrange the table for Helga.

"I keep telling that girl, no one gives a shit if your sentence ends with a preposition!"

"Well at least she's working on her speech," Arnold replied. "Meanwhile I gotta keep reminding Gerald the debate's coming up in three days, only to hear, each time, 'Arnold my man, I got this.'"

"Hey man," Gerald spoke up. "I'm right here. And I do got this."

Arnold smiled at his friend. "Whatever you say man."

Suddenly, Ellis turned up the volume on his television. An anchorwoman on the news began to speak.

"He's gotten into more twitter wars than we can ever ask for, and he's often seen as the most hated man in the city. But that doesn't seem to stop him from announcing his candidacy for city council despite his tragic loss several years ago to butcher and former elected office, Marty Green. Joining us now from in front of the electoral office, we have Richard Gladhand."

The three students perked up their ears when they heard a very familiar voice emanating from the speakers. On the screen, and square-faced man appeared in a tightly fitted blue suit, and silver hair swept over to hide his balding scalp.

"My name is _Gladhand_ ," he began, ignoring the boos buzzing throughout the crowd, "Former City Councilman Gladhand...and I have returned because I see a problem emerging in this city. People coming in from all over the place, taking our jobs, selling drugs, harassing our women! Well I've come here to promise you one thing: If I'm elected to city council, I will make Hillwood great again!"

Much to the surprise of Helga, Arnold, and Gerald, a few voices in the crowd erupted in cheer.

"I think I'm gonna barf," blurted Gerald.

"Me too," Arnold agreed.

"Me three."

* * *

Arnold and Gerald had passed nearly nine trash cans on their way home, before one of them finally spoke.

"Did….you hear something?" Arnold asked.

"Uh….no?"

" _Arnold! Gerald!"_

"Now, I _know_ heard something," Arnold insisted.

"Yeah! Sounded like it was coming from that trash can!"

The two looked at one another and shrugged. Arnold walked over to the trembling metal bin, and cautiously opened the lid, only for a skull-capped head to pop out like a jack-in-the-box.

" _Sid_?" Arnold yelled.

"Shhhhhh! Are they gone?" Sid asked, neurotically, scanning the streets.

"Who's gone?"

"The seniors!" he panicked.

"Seniors…? From our school?"

"Yes of course those seniors!" Sid grabbed Arnold's collars and wrung his head frantically. "The ones I stole the Crowe grass from!"

"Wait," said Gerald. "I thought you _bought_ that from them."

"Uh…. _newsflash_ Gerald," Sid turned to Gerald, letting go of Arnold's shirt at the same time. "No one _risks their life_ to get Crowe grass only to sell it to a broke junior!"

"So why don't you give it back to them?" Arnold asked.

"Uh….this is _Crowe_ grass we're talking about. _Crowe grass_ , only the greatest, most euphoric experience ever known to mankind-"

"And has been 'jealously guarded for over fifty years.' Yeah. I know." Arnold shook his head. "Sid….does that mean…. _all of it_?"

"No, not all of it! Well….most of it. Stinky and Harold helped."

Arnold sighed.

"What are you gonna do, man?" Gerald asked.

"You guys gotta help me!" Sid's eyes widened in plea.

"How do you expect us to help you?"

Sid gulped, as the little beads of sweat rolled down the sides of forehead.

"You guys gotta help me get some more so I can pay them back!"

"Where are you planning to get more...?" asked Gerald, though he was afraid he already knew.

"Tomorrow night, after sundown, we're sneaking onto..." Sid gulped, "the _Crowe estate_."

* * *

AN: Thank you so much for your patience as I took about an eternity to update :(

I've been wanting to write a classic "Hey Arnold!" urban legend. Hopefully this came out well. Let me know what you liked about the chapter! Or what you hated! And...let me know if there are any topics/characters you want me to focus on in future chapters. I love you all for taking the time to read this 3


	8. Best Wall You'd Ever Seen

Best Wall You'd Ever Seen.

 _I promise, that as your city councilman, I will build a great big wall around the city, and it's going to be tremendous. I'm telling you. Best wall you'd ever seen._

"Now, this guy knows what he's talking about."

He sank into his couch as he watched the news. That's when he heard a door slam shut. Footsteps stomped emphatically halfway down the stairs.

"Bob, can you _please_ turn that thing off! I'm trying to sleep."

"Sleep? What do you gotta sleep for? It's only eleven."

"Uh….I have _school_ tomorrow."

"School? Didn't you already graduate?"

"No, _dad_ , I don't graduate for another _year and a half._ "

"Huh. Well, when Olga was your age, she'd already started college."

"Great. So glad she made use of that good ol' college experience. Sure that's _really_ coming in handy while she's on stage right now, playing the _freaking_ maid in a play that _no one_ is watching. I'm going to go take what's left of my debt-free childhood and get some sleep."

"Yeah, you do that. By the way, did you talk to Ellis?"

"Yes, _dad_. I talked to Ellis. Said he's short on cash, and he'll pay you back by the end of the week. I told him he'd better pay up or Big Bob was gonna get his men to 'redecorate' the place."

"Good. Good."

"You know, you don't have to be such a freaking tyrant. I'm sure the guy was planning to pay you back as soon as he could."

"Yeah? What do you know? You're just a kid!"

"I know that the economy's in the _stink hole_ right now."

"Ah….that's just what the hippies want you to think. You know when Gladhand gets control over city council, you probably won't even have to go to college. We'll have plenty more jobs comin' in."

Helga sighed.

" _Goodnight, Bob._ "

"Goodnight, Olga."

* * *

AN:

This is for "Badwolf123456," who very cleverly pointed out that I haven't given a reason for why Helga was in the bar. This scene takes place the same night, and will hopefully clear things up.

Anyway, I hope this can hold you all over until winter, when I plan to publish the next installment. I won't give away everything, but Arnold _might_ have some indirect connections to _The Crow Estate..._ who knows. Also, more on Grandma, the Whittenburg's, and a love triangle for Arnold & Helga coming soon...

One more thing, I strongly request that those who are reading this please share just one or two thoughts about the chapter. Reading your reviews really helps me with my writing and also motivates me to continue with my story :) Thank you to those that have 3


	9. Stupid Winkler

Stupid Winkler

AN: Original characters….or are they?

 _ ****Approximately 65 years ago****_

Darla Fitzpatrick was roughly 4 feet and 1 inch tall on any given day. On days when her mama would fix her wildly curly hair into a high bun, she would be granted another three inches or so, but today she was grateful to have gone with braids. As long as she kept her knees bent ever so slightly, she would be given an extra 2 centimeters of room between the top of her head and the metal shelf hovering in the locker where she was currently stuck.

That's right. Darla Fitzpatrick was stuck inside the locker. Not just any locker. She had found herself, on this day that was supposed to be momentous for a multitude of reasons, inside the locker of a fifth grader named Ricky Winkler.

This was not by design. Not by any means. In fact, Darla had done her best to fight back when Ricky and his two friends grabbed her by the arms and legs and shoved her petite body into his putrid locker that reeked of an old grilled cheese sandwich molding for the past two months.

Darla had always been a fragile thing (mama would sometimes make fun of her and call her a "coat hanger" when she put on her jacket), but what she lacked in strength, she made up for in wit.

 _Not that my smarts do me any good_ , she thought, woefully. In fact, sometimes Darla wished that her two lips could be sown right up, and maybe she wouldn't find herself in these types of predicaments.

Darla stood there, defeated, and wondered how she ended up inside a locker...

* * *

At five feet tall, Richard Winkler stood the tallest boy in the fifth grade. Next to Abby McFarley and Jake Sawyer, he hung around outside the school building, leaning against the dumpster like a dumb giant, fumbling with his cigarette.

"Looks like Winkler never lit no cig before," Abby grinned, revealing her rotten tooth. She elbowed Jake next to her while twirling one of her red braids.

"Poor old Winkler," Jake chimed in, chapping his lips.

"Hey, shut up! I've had a cigarette before. I got tons of em in my bag! I'm the best smoker ever. Believe me. The best," said Ricky.

"Your rich pa buy you all them cigarettes?" said Jake.

"Woo wee! His daddy probably hired a guy to teach him how to smoke."

"My daddy didn't buy me nothin'!" Ricky shouted.

"Well if he didn't buy em for you," Abby began, "Then where'd you get that fancy little guy?"

"I….I stole em from his office!"

"No kidding! Looks like Winkler here's got some actual balls! Hand me one of those, will ya Ricky boy?" said Abby.

Ricky took off his backpack and dug around for two more cigarettes. Abby and Jake snatched them from his hands and lit em up. As he took in a bout of smoke, Richard could hear the bell inside the building ring. He thought for a moment, as he copied Jake's technique by exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

"Wanna see me bang up one of the third graders?" he asked.

"You ain't gonna bang up no little kid," Abby jeered.

"Yeah, baby Winkler here can't get his rich little hands dirty," Jake added.

"Shut up!" Ricky yelled. "Just shut up about my money!"

"Looks like Winkle's about to tinkle in his pants!" Abby squealed.

"I ain't gonna tinkle!" Rickey retorted.

"Winkle's gonna tinkle! Winkle's gonna tinkle!" Ricky's two companions sang in unison, as swarms of children burst out of the building for recess.

"I hate my damn name!" Ricky shouted out loud to himself.

He struggled to come up with a comeback, when his eyes fell on a tiny third grade boy walking past the dumpsters where the three fifth graders played hookey. He instantly grabbed the boy by the back of his collar, halting him in place.

"Well, well, well," Ricky sneered, glancing back for a moment at his two friends before sizing down the scrawny boy. "If it ain't little _Fester Horowitz_."

The boy, realizing that his legs were no longer moving, looked back in fright.

"Y-yes, Mr. Winkle…"

"It's _Winkler_!" Ricky barked.

Abby and Jake snickered.

"Yes Mr. _Winkler_!" the boy corrected himself.

"Where do you think you're going?" Ricky pressed on.

"Um...to buy a candy bar from Wally?"

"A candy bar, eh?" Ricky hesitated for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. "How much money you got in your pockets?"

Fester fished in hand in his right pocket and pulled out a dime and a penny.

"Eleven cents? That's it?" Ricky snatched the two coins out of the boy's hands.

"Hey! That's mine!" the boy protested.

"I don't think so," Ricky began, stroking his chin. "Didn't my papa lend your daddy some money for your school books, Fester?"

"I-I think so…"  
"And doesn't that mean you're _indebted_ to my family?"

"Sir...I-I don't know that word"

"It means my daddy lent your daddy $25, and so far he ain't seen none of it back! And now you're struttin' about buying candy bars when you should be paying me back! That money belongs to me. You got that?"

"That money doesn't belong to you." A voice suddenly came a few feet away near the building.

Four heads turned towards the tiny voice. Before them stood a small, braided, African American girl looking up at three giant ten year olds through a pair of maroon thick framed spectacles that shielded nearly half of her face, and made her look even tinier by comparison.

"What did you say…" Ricky growled at the little thing, letting go of Fester's collar in the process.

"I said that's Fester's money. It doesn't belong to you," she began, evenly. "Technically, by law, a loan agreement only involves the responsible party that signed the contract."

"Wow-ie!" Abby suddenly chimed in. "Look at that negro girl talkin' up old _Tinkler_!"

"It's Winkler!" Ricky snapped. He turned to the little girl who defied him. "How about _this_ law: Until I get my $25, I take Fester's eleven cents every day for the next 6 months."

"Well technically," she responded, "It would take approximately 227 days to get $25 out of increments of eleven cents. And if you count weekends, it might even take longer. Not that any of that matters since, quite frankly," she continued, "You got no executive power."

"What did you say to me?" Ricky looked at her, confused and turning red in the face.

"She said you got no power _Tinkle_!" Abby egged him on.

Ricky grabbed the little girl by the collar of her dress and dangled her up in midair until she was face to face with him.

"What's your name little girl?" Ricky asked.

"D-Darla…" she responded, sounding less confident than she did previously.

"Darla, eh? What's a negro doing at a white school…. _huh_?"

"I got every right to be here!" she struggled in midair. "I got good grades and I passed all my tests!"

"Good grades? You think you're so smart you can just do whatever you want? Go wherever you want?"

"I-It's my _right_ …"

"You're what?"

"My right!" she cried. "By law I'm allowed to attend any school I want."

"Law? Let me show you law."

* * *

After nearly 45 minutes inside the wretched metal death trap, Darla could hear the sound of footsteps tapping down the previously deserted hallway. She immediately sprung into action, and banged loudly against the door with her tiny hands as best she could, crying, "Hey! Hey you!".

She could no longer hear the footsteps, and for a moment, she thought that her potential savior had abandoned her. A few seconds later, she heard a young girl's voice.

"Cover your ears!" it said.

"Wait...wha-"

Suddenly a something slammed against the locker, filling the tiny space with a loud _kaboom_ causing the entire locker to vibrate in sync followed by a high pitched ringing pulsating through her ears. "Ouch!" she yelled.

"I told you to cover your ears!"

This time Darla did not wait for an explanation. She slapped her hands against her ears and protected them from the next assault. After two more loud bangs against the locker where she was trapped, she could see the door jiggle back and forth. She could here the mysterious girl struggling to pry it open for a few seconds before the sound of a heavy combination lock could be heard clanging against the hard floor.

The door swung open, revealing a tall blonde girl with pigtails standing before Darla and growling.

" _Stupid Winkle_ ," the girl simply said before turning around and continuing back to where she was headed. Darla continued standing in her unlocked jail pen, processing what just happened. Before she knew it, the girl who broke into Ricky's locker to save her was already halfway out the building.

"W-wait!" Darla tried to catch her attention, but the pigtailed girl didn't seem to hear her. Darla found her legs finally working, and ran after her. "Wait up!"

This was followed by the girl walking even faster. As though trying to run away from the prisoner she just saved. But Darla wouldn't take no for an answer..

She ran as fast as her little feet would take her until the tips of her fingers grazed against a strap hanging off the back of the girl's backpack. She immediately yanked it, forcing the girl she was chasing to come to an immediate halt.

" _What_?" the mysterious girl yelled.

"I just wanted to say thank you," Darla replied.

"Don't mention it. Seriously. Can't have people talking…" the girl replied, darting her gaze left and right making sure no one was there to witness her.

"Talking about helping a negro girl, you mean…" Darla looked down embarrassed.

"What? No!" the girl immediately snapped. "I can't have em' thinking I've gone soft or anything."

"Gone soft?"

"Listen kid," the girl put her hand on Darla's shoulder. "I got a bit of a reputation to maintain. People don't think of me as the type of person who 'helps' others."

"O-oh, I get it. You're compensating for something you're insecure about by making everyone around you afraid of you."

"Excuse me?" the girl raised an eyebrow above her glaring eyes.  
"I-I'm sorry!" Darla's eyes widened. "I can't filter my words. I try and I try, and things just blurt out. That's...um...sort of how I ended up in this mess."

The girl before her sighed.

"You know," she began, "you seem like a nick kid, uh…."

"Darla."

"You seem like a nice kid, Darla, but listen to me: never be afraid to be yourself."

"Whenever I open my big fat mouth, I always end up making people angry."

"Well next time someone tries to mess with you, just call out my name, and I'll show them a thing or two until they cry like a baby." The girl said. Suddenly she gasped, and began briskly walking away from Darla again. "Sorry, kiddo Gotta plant this whoopie cushion on Phil's seat before he gets to class." The girl snickered to herself again.

"Who's Phillip?" Darla inquired.

"Just this pointy chinned dweeb who's always trying to talk to me. Anyway, he'll be there any minute now, so…." the girl turned around and walked away. Just as she was rounding the corner, Darla suddenly realized something.

"Hey! What's _your_ name?" she cried out/ The girl craned her neck around slightly without looking back entirely.

"Depends on who's asking," she replied, still looking the other way.

"Me! You said I could call on you if I ever needed help with bullies!"

The girl paused and turned her head all the way back and for the first time, looked directly at Darla.

"Gertrude. But you can call me Gerty."

And with that, Gerty darted off.

* * *

"This is it, guy," Sid gulped, as he stood between his two confidentes. The three teenage boys shivered against the cold wind, outside a tall towering gate with a an old weathered sign hanging loosely at the door, reading " _The Crowe Estate_."

* * *

AN2: Alriiiiiight! This was originally supposed to be a short flashback in the next chapter, but it just ended up becoming a story of its own. That being said, I still plan to publish another chapter before New Years.

Anyone excited about meeting a young Grandma? I've always wanted to continue with the brief flashback we got to see of her and Grandpa as kids in the original Hey Arnold!

I'm also excited to see how many of you can guess how a lot of these "new" characters connect to the show.

Lastly, I promise that this story will focus on Arnold and Helga. I just want to expand on some other characters and story arcs first. Like a lot of my reviewers have sad, the Arnold/Helga romance will be slow, But I will totally make it worth your time. :)

As always, let me know what you think! Good and bad reviews alike, the only thing that makes writing this worth it for me is looking forward to reading your reviews afterward!


	10. The Legend of Crowe Grass II

The Legend of Crowe Grass II

Officer Frances M. Pudney fiddled her fingers for fourteen minutes straight while counting out fortey-one skittles in the bowl sitting in front of her. Not a single one was under a year old. What's worse is that this was her forty-fourth birthday and instead of drinking a beer with her a thirty-two year old 'boyfriend,' she was called in to man the desk while waiting on ten seventeen-year-old high schoolers to come into her station and explain what they had been doing for the past forty-five minutes.

She finally heard the sirens pull up, and watched the first teenaged culprit poke his unusually wide head through the door, leading nine others to a row of unfolded chairs lined up in front of her desk. They sat down, many with their heads buried in their hands, probably wondering if she was going to call their parents.

Oh, you can bet she was going to do just that. She would let herself get wasted tonight. Surely she deserved it, for there is nothing unholier in this precious world than calling parents and explaining to them that their kid is waiting for them at the damn police station for something as idiotic as lifting some weed.

She stood up and walked in front of her desk, and leaned back, while pulling a lollipop out of her mouth. Before she could even begin, the fat one fell off his chair, and kneeled down at her feet….crying.

" _Pleeeease!_ " he begged, tugging at the end of her coat. "Are you gonna call my mommy?"

Frances rolled her eyes and yanked her shirt away.

"Get back to your seat!" she yelled. The boy shuffled back to his seat, and sniffled. "Now," she continued, "Can anyone tell me what the hell happened tonight? Anyone? You with the gray hat!"

A skinny boy with a gray skull cap looked up with his large egg-shaped eyes, a frightened look plastered over his face. "I didn't do it!" he yelled. "It was….it was them!" He pointed to a black teen and the blonde boy with the large head.

"Hey," the black teen looked up at the boy. "Don't pin this on us!"

"Yeah!" the blonde boy continued. "None of this would have happened if it wasn't for you, Sid."

"Yeah!" the fat boy who was crying finally swallowed his tears. "This is all _Sid's fault_!"

"Yeah!" the rest of the teens joined in.

"Alright, alright!" Officer Pudney attempted to quell the rioting teens. She pointed her cherry lollipop to the persecuted boy with the gray hat. "I'm guessing _you're_ Sid…"

"That's right…" Sid responded, glaring at his fickle friends.

"Alright, _Sid_ ," she continued. "I'm gonna ask you one more time: What. Happened."

Sid sighed.  
"Well…" he began, pacing back and forth between the line of teens and this icy police officer. "It all started earlier today when we decided to, um...well, we wanted to…."

"To steal some _Crowe grass_ ," Officer Pudney finished the boy's sentence.

"Y-yes…" he admitted. "We wanted some Crowe grass."

* * *

"This is it, guys," Sid gulped, as he stood between his two confidentes. The three teenage boys shivered against the cold wind, outside a tall towering gate with a an old weathered sign hanging loosely at the door, reading ' _The Crowe Estate_.'

Just as Sid reached for the lock, the three boys heard the sound of a car door closing behind them.

"See?" they heard a familiar country drawal. "I told you they was fixin' to get some more Crowe grass!"

They turned around and saw their large nosed classmate and his heavier companion with an underbite getting out of a large pick-up truck.

"Stinky?" Arnold yelled.

"Harold?" said Sid.

"Howdy y'all," Stinky waved at the trio as he and Harold rushed over. "We overheard y'all plannin' your big heist during lunch this morning, so Harold and I figured we would _accompany_ you."

"Yeah! I want some weed!" Harold shouted.

Arnold looked over at Gerald, who in turn, merely shrugged his shoulders.

"Alright," Sid responded, in a hushed voice. "So long as it's just you and Harold. We can manage two more people, right guys?" Sid looked over at his original two companions.

"Well, us two and Rhonda and probably Nadine…" Stinky replied.

"You told Rhonda and Nadine?!" Sid shouted, grabbing Stinky by the collar of his shirt.

Before Stinky could defend himself, Rhonda pulled up to the side of the old dirt road in her convertible sports car, with the lid pulled down. Nadine sat in the passenger's seat. In the back sat Peapod kid and…

"Helga!" Arnold's voice squeaked. Gerald rolled his eyes.

"Hope you don't mind!" Rhonda shouted, waving her hand, and removing her sunglasses, tucking them into her thick black hair. "I told Peapod kid, and well, Helga was also there, so…"

"We don't mind!" Arnold piped in. "Right guys?"

"Good…" Helga said, slamming the door behind her. "Sooner we can get to the bottom of this, sooner I can get home in time for some wrestling."

"This is all...terribly, _terribly_ exciting," remarked Peapod kid.

"Uh….guys?" Sid asked, throwing a panicked look over to Arnold and Gerald.

The three huddled together.

"This is a bad idea!" Sid whispered.

"Come on, Sid," Gerald replied. "It's not like more people makes this any less terrible a plan…"

"Gerald's right, Sid," Arnold continued. "Maybe they can help us find the Crowe grass faster, and we can all go home and put this whole night behind us."

"Alright, fine!" said Sid. He looked back at the six new faces now joining him on his lifesaving quest for sacred cannabis. "But stay close. And whatever you do, _be quiet_ "

"Oh, please…" Harold rolled his eyes as he sashayed over to the gate, Rhonda and Nadine following right behind him. "What are you... _scared_?" Suddenly, a bat flew through the gaps between the metal rods of the gate. "Oh dear God!"

He jumped right into Rhonda's arms. Rhonda angrily growled at him, dropping him on the ground like a hot potato. Harold looked back up at her, smiling apologetically.

"As I was saying!" Sid grumbled, as he pushed aside the foliage collected over the chain holding the gate together, revealing an open metal lock.

All nine of them worked together to pull the two gates apart…

* * *

"Nine?" Officer Pudney interrupted. "I count ten of you."

"I'm getting there…" Sid insisted. "As I was saying, it took all nine of us to pull the two gates apart…"

* * *

As the sun set, a shadow fell over the entire estate. The nine teens made their way through the fields digging through acres of long weeds that reached the tops of their heads, in hopes of discovering a patch of land filled with the ever elusive Crowe grass.

Arnold wandered off with Gerald through a particular aisle of weed, shivering in the cold air, and pointing his flashlight ahead of him.

"See anything yet?" he asked.

"Nope!" Gerald replied, shaking his head in disbelief that he was actually wasting a perfectly good Tuesday evening trying to find this bigfoot of a plant, when he could be preparing for the debate coming up, or even better...practicing the saxophone.

"Well, I for one have had it," Arnold continued. "That's it! I'm calling a fake. There's no way there's any Crowe grass. There's no legendary high. And there certainly isn't some ghost named Eug-AAAAAH!"

"Arnold!" Gerald yelled, searching for his best friend, before his flashlight finally pointed to him falling to the ground, as though being dragged into dense jungle of wildlife.

"Gerald! It's got me! It's...wait a second."

Arnold's plea was drowned out by the familiar sound of a certain 17-year-old female's sinister laugh.

"Helga!" Arnold and Gerald exclaimed at once.

"Hey don't look at me!" she said, letting go of Arnold's ankle and walking out into the clearing. "It's not _my_ fault you're so jumpy."  
"So that was _you_?" Gerald yelled.

"Of course it was," she scoffed. "You don't _actually_ think there's some ghost wandering around do you?"

"Yes there is!" Sid announced, walking over to the trio, followed by the five others that accompanied them.

Helga sighed.

"Face it, Sid. There's no ghost. There never _was_ a ghost. There will never _be_ a damn ghost!" she yelled.

"Oh _yeah_?" he challenged.

" _Yeah_!" she shouted.

"Then what's that?"

All heads immediately turned in unison towards the direction of Sid's paralyzed gaze. A bright flame nearly fifty yards away _floating_ six feet in the air approached them ever so slowly…

"It's the ghost of Eugene Crowe!" Harold yelled, launching a wild frenzy as all nine teens ran for their lives, only to be pursued by their predator from the other realm. They didn't make it far.

"My leg!" The eight other teens listened to the cries of their close friend Harold Bergman, a 250 pound quarterback of the high school football team, as he fell to the ground and began grovelling like a baby.

"Oh please Mr. Ghost, sir. Don't eat me! I-I'm high in... _calories_!"

"I don't want you!" came a voice from the direction of the flame. It sounded muffled...almost _mechanical_. The ghost let go of Harold's ankle.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Harold cried tears of joy.

"I want…" the voice continued. The flaming torch approached Sid, whom was perspiring both because of the fire and out of apprehension. "I want you."

"M-me?" Sid stuttered, backing away slowly. "Why do you want _me_?"

"Because," the ghost replied. "Five days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes ago, you _stole_ something that didn't belong to you."

"Y-you mean the Crowe grass?" Sid said. "I-I couldn't help it! It's only the most euphoric high-"

"Not the Crowe grass!" the ghost responded.

"T-then what?"

The ghost sighed.

"Five days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes ago," it continued, "you were walking out of art class…"  
"How'd you know I was walking out art class!" Sid cried.

"Because! Ugh... _because I'm a fucking ghost, okay_?"

"Okay, geez…" Sid said. "You don't have to have such a temper."

" _Will you just_ …Okay, just... _let me finish_! God."

"Sorry."

" _Anyway_ ," the ghost continued. "As you walked out, you happen to pass by a sculpture of a most pristine design composed entirely of toothpicks. Does _that_ ring a bell?"

"I remember a pile of toothpicks…"

"I thought it was supposed to be a turkey!" Harold interrupted.

"I thought it was some kind of performance art…" Stinky chimed in.

"NO IT WAS NOT PERFORMANCE ART!" the ghost yelled, bringing the flame closer than ever to the group of shivering victims-to-be. "It was a carefully carved out sculpture of _Rhonda Wellington Lloyd_."

"Me?" Rhonda blurted.

"And then _you_ …" the ghost continued. "Just as I was finished, and was about to present my gift to my beautiful goddess, you... _stole_ a toothpick! Used it to get some bacon out of your teeth, and _threw_ it out! LIKE IT WAS NO BIG DEAL!"

"Wait a second…" Arnold spoke up. He walked over to the ghost.

"Arnold, what are you doing?" Harold yelled.

Arnold bent down and reached over for the ghost. Just then, everyone looked down and noticed a pair of white shiny tennis shoes poking out from its feet. Gerald sighed, and grabbed the torch from the ghost's hands while Arnold lifted the black cloak to reveal someone neither of the nine teens were expecting to be behind all of this.

"CURLY!" they all shouted in unison.

"That's right!" he shouted, stepping back, still speaking into his voice disguiser. "Sid ruined my sculpture, and now he must pay!"

Curly lunged right at Sid, only to be easily repelled by Harold, whom only had to grab his collar and hold him in place. His microphone flew out of his hand.

"Lemme at him!" Curly yelled in his own familiar voice, struggling against Harold's strength. "Lemme _at_ him!"

"Curly," Arnold said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Were you behind this whole thing?"

"That's exactly right," Curly spat. "I planted the fake pot by the senior lunch table just when I knew Sid would be walking past them. I sent him a text pretending to be the seniors ready to pound him. I dressed up in black, so no one would see me, and...and made you all think I was the ghost of Eugene Crowe! And you know what? I'd do it again if I had to! Muahahaha!"

Before anyone could respond, all ten teens heard the sound of police sirens approaching the estate from a distance.

* * *

"But there's just one thing I don't understand," Sid said, as he stood before Officer Pudney.

"What's that?" she responded.

"If it was all just Curly…" Sid began, "then who called the cops?"

"Yeah!" the other teens chimed in.

"I did." A voice came from the front doors.

All eyes fell on a middle aged African American woman of light milky skin walking in, shaking out her umbrella, and placing it in a carrier near the door.

"Who are you?" Arnold asked.

"This here," Officer Pudney spoke up, "is the owner of the Crowe Estate."

"Wait a minute…" Sid interrupted, before the woman could explain. "You're not…."

"She can't be…" Gerald stuttered.

" _Darla Fitzpatrick_?" Sid yelled.

"From the legend?" Gerald continued.

"Darla Fitzpatrick!?" the woman rolled her eyes. "Boys, do I _look_ like I'm old enough to be Darla Fitzpatrick? No, my name is Virginia. Virginia Crowe…"

All ten teens gasped, before she continued.

"You're thinking of my mother…" the woman turned around and stepped outside. A few seconds later, she came back in with a new companion: an old black woman with silver shiny hair and beautiful creases deeply embedded into her slightly darker skin. She shuffled through the door-one shaky hand used her cane to help her walk, the other rested on the younger woman's left arm. The old woman looked around and surveyed the group of youngsters sitting before her. She then cleared her throat.

"My name," she began in a raspy, fading voice, "is Darla Fitzpatrick. And you kids were making quite a ruckus!"

Gerald looked over to Virginia.

"So you must be…" he began.

"The daughter of Darla Fitzpatrick and Eugene Crowe," she responded, calmly.

"But I don't understand," Arnold pressed on. "I thought Darla Fitzpatrick was supposed to be...well…"

"Dead?" the old woman responded curtly. "Well it appears, young lad, that I am very much alive and kicking."

"But how?" Arnold asked.

"Everyone in this city seems to know the short version of the story," she rolled her eyes. "They all miss the part where I escaped from the barn just as it collapses, and run off with Gene's baby. I was only 6 weeks in at the time," she chuckled, winking at her daughter.

Darla Fitzpatrick walked over to Sid, who was trembling before her with wide eyes. "You son," she placed a hand on his shoulder, "look as though you've seen a ghost."

Sid eye's rolled back and he immediately fainted before her feet.

* * *

 ****A few months later****

It was a cold winter night on the eve of December 25th, when two old women sat by a fire and spoke to one another after several long decades. Despite years having gone by since they last spoke, on that night, they chatted as though no time at all had past. Indeed, when one reaches a certain age, time begins to feel like a pile of crushed up leaves rolled up into a sheet of white paper. Each year jumbles into the next with little to no distinction.

"I still don't understand," one of the two old ladies spoke, "why you didn't just call me that night when my grandson and his little friends came running around your field. You know I would've whipped those behinds raw!"

"Well, Gerty," the other woman, this one with dark brown skin, replied. "You know I've been fighting my own battles since law school."

"Ah yes," Gerty responded, quietly. Then she suddenly jumped up and raised her fist in the air. "Let's go Rosa Park! The fight ain't over and we got bus seats to fill!"

"Oh Gerty," her friend responded, placing a hand on her friend's elbow, and sitting her back down. "I'm not Rosa Park...It's me, _Darla_ , remember?"

"Oh yes…" Gerty responded, sitting back down. "Rosa was one crazy bitch, wasn't she?"

"The best kind," Darla responded.

"Though she was nothing compared to my good friend, Darla."

Darla rolled up a small pile of crushed up leaves on her tray in front of her, and handed a joint over to Gerty before making one for herself.

The two old women sat by the fire on that very cold night, cozied up in warm knitted socks, and enjoying the greatest, most euphoric experience ever known to mankind.

"Merry Christmas, Gerty," Darla whispered.

Gertrude smiled.

"And a Happy New Year..."


	11. The Poem, the Crystal Ball, and Camera

**The Poem, the Crystal Ball, and a $500 Camera**

Average Kid

 _I'm just an average kid_

 _with average tits and zits_

 _and a little hair between my brows._

 _When I was nine,_

 _I could spit the furthest in my class,_

 _but all in all,_

 _I'm just an average kid._

 _I'm just an average kid_

 _with a bucktooth smile and kiss,_

 _and two tricks_

 _tucked away in my back pocket_

 _for a rainy day._

 _I'm just an average kid_

 _with thick skin and blue veins._

 _Powdered down to knock down_

 _the biggest jerk_

 _with my white knuckled fist,_

 _I'm just an average kid_

 _with fickle hopes and dreams,_

 _and I've read far too much Hemingway,_

 _that I think in declaratives_

 _and cynical quips._

 _I'm just an average kid_

 _with poisonous lips that spit_

 _crumpled paper into your eyes._

 _How dare you see me as anything more_

 _than ordinary. I'll make you pay._

 _-Cecille_

* * *

"Arnold, man, watch out!" The warning came a bit late, however, as Gerald watched his friend slip on a couple of oranges and fall flat onto his back as a result. He shook his head at his fallen fool of a friend. "You okay?"

"Ah...yeah," Arnold replied, looking somewhat bewildered.

You see, the two teenaged boys had been walking home from school and happened to be passing by an unusual shop of potions when, from out of nowhere, the citrus fruit came rolling out of the front entrance onto the sidewalk, and went fluttering unexpectedly between their legs.

After his fall, Arnold and Gerald managed to turn their heads and watch one of the fruit whirl down the sidewalk, skirt passed the gutter, and come to a standstill in the center of the road before getting run over by speeding taxi. Orange juice squirted all over their feet.

"I'm telling you, man," said Gerald, who managed to avoid the hurdle and save his behind, "You need to stop reading that journal. It's taking over your life!"

"I just _know_ I can figure out who Cecile is, Gerald." Arnold replied, still splain on the ground, dusting the front cover of the book that lately never left his site, "The answer is in here...somewhere."

"Look man," Gerald bent down and grabbed his friend's shoulders, "I know this might sound like a dumb question, but...WHO CARES?! She's probably just one of _Helga's_ friends."

Arnold was about to retort when a sudden rustle could be heard coming from the store.

"Young man!" a woman's voice called out.

Gerald barely muttered an "Oh no" under his breath before the familiar middle-aged gypsie came running towards them. The boys soaked in her comically vintage makeup that did little to distract from her long curly black and silver hair that was pulled back by a purple handkerchief.

"Madame Blanche?" Arnold asked, dusting himself off as he stood up. She ignored them, running towards the road, with little to zero regard for her safety.

"Where are those damn oranges?" she asked no one in particular, scanning the road.

"They rolled away," Gerald explained.

"Rolled away?" she snapped, turning to the boys. "Why would you just let them roll away! Ya think these oranges just grow on trees or somethin?"

Gerald and Arnold looked at one another a bit confused "Yes…?" Gerald shrugged.

"Well," she threw her hands up in the air, "That's just great. Can't make any more goddamn fortune potion without the main ingredient. _Fucking economy!_ "

"W-what's a fortune potion?" Arnold asked, immediately regretting the decision right after.

Madame Blanche squinted her eyes at the two boys. She reached into the front pocket of her velvet vest and pulled out a silver whisky flask. She untwisted the cap and dangled the concoction that reeked of some sort of fruit cocktail mix before the underaged boys.

"You drink this, boys," she smiled menacingly, "and I can tell you things about yourselves you didn't even wanna know."

"Um…" Arnold turned to his friend, who ardently shook his head. "No thanks."

"I..uh…" Madame Blanche jumped to her feet. "I see a romance in your future!" she shouted to the back of the boy's wide head.

"Right…" he mumbled, unconvinced, as the pair began walking away from her shop.

"They are the key to all of your happiness!" Madame Blanche pleaded with her potential customer, while thinking on her bunyon'ed feet. "In fact, the _spirits_ are telling me-they are _clearly speaking to me_ \- that you'll run into your true love siren by the end of the day."

"By the end of the day?" Arnold asked, skeptically, while turning back slightly towards to wicked saleswoman.

"Or sooner.." she sang, "they're watching you as we speak. That much I can tell."

"They're watching me right now?" Arnold retorted incredulously.

She shoved the bottle into his hands. "Of course...you'll be easier to read once you drink this potion."

Arnold sighed, and Gerald chuckled with an amused look on his face. The two made their way back to the store and approached the woman.

"Alright," he conceded once he decided that the liquid he was about to drink couldn't have been more than fruit punch and cilantro. "Tell me my fortune."

"You're a wise boy," she began, snatching the bottle away from him before he could take a sip, "to come to my doorsteps seeking all of the wisdom Madame Blanche has to offer ...for the bargain price of just ten bucks, of course."

Arnold rolled his eyes. "Nah...forget it," he started backing away again.

"Five!" The fortune teller negotiated with the young hard baller. "Five bucks, and I'll tell you what their name is!"

"You can tell me her name?" Arnold's mind immediately fled to the tiny moniker printed at the bottom of the poem he had just read out of the Hillwood High literary journal on his way to this shop.

"I see I've sparked your interest," the woman smiled. "Come boys. Come and see what awaits you."

* * *

Arnold and Gerald found themselves in a dimly lit room located in the back portion of her shop. They were crowded around a table, at the center of which lay a dusty crystal ball. With little warning, Madame Blanche flung her head up, and let her eyes roll back as strange gurgling sounds emerged from her throat.

The two boys looked at one another, uncomfortably waiting out the seemingly lewd performance.

"You!" she suddenly shouted, pointing a long finger at Arnold.

"Me?" Arnold jumped.

"I see….a man...named…" Madame Blanche searched his eyes before noticing a 15 mph sign outside her shop. "Miles…?"

"That's my dad!" Arnold squeaked.

"Wait.. _really_? I-I mean, yes!" her eyes looked manic. "Yes of course! Your father is...speaking to you from the hereafter."

"Hereafter?" Gerald spoke up. "Lady, my boy's dad is alive and kickin."

"Well, I _obviously_ knew that, okay? I'm a goddamn fortune teller. Give me some credit." she scoffed before clearing her throat. "I meant he's speaking to you from the here...after...uh...the long day he's had."

"What is he saying?" asked Arnold.

"Um..he wants to know why you aren't home yet...?"

"But...I don't live with my dad."

"Let me finish! Jesus," she snapped. "I meant _metaphorically_. He wants to know why you aren't home, metaphorically."

"Does he...miss me or something? I just called him last night."

"Oh great Madame Blanche!" Gerald interrupted with thinly veiled sarcasm. "Tell us about my boy's true love! You know...the one who's name you supposedly know?"

"Ah!" she exhaled, looking somewhat relieved. "Who is this ravishing specimen? Who is the man that holds young Arnold's heart?"

"Man? Um...look I'm not...you know..."

Gerald and Madame Blanche looked back at Arnold, unconvinced.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that!" Arnold insisted, turning red and stumbling over his words. "I'm just saying...it's not the way _I_ personally roll. You know. I like _women_."

Madame Blanche looked at Gerald, who looked back at her and shrugged with equal skepticism. She turned to her flushed customer.

"R-right! Woman," she hid a smirk, "Of course. Who is the woman that holds young Archy's heart?"

"It's Arnold."

"Don't interrupt me, sugar."

"Sorry."

" _Her_ name is..." She looked around as though following a floating apparition, while thinking up a name that would sound convincing. Arnold and Gerald followed her gaze in confusion.

Now, it was at this point that the 43-year-old, divorced, short on rent, and married-to-her-cousin-Vinny-to-stay-in-the-country Blanche Nemčovský looked up and caught a glance of Arnold's face. The blonde fool was beaming with unconditional faith in her ability to deliver on her promise.  
 _Goddamn_ , she sighed as his naivety failed to quell her growing guilt. She distracted herself by bending down and looking into the crystal ball, as though the answers could be found deep within it. She lamented at the little crack that ran along half of its circumference. It was her great grandomama's: Lavinia. And it really did reveal hidden secrets. Well...it revealed hidden secrets to her great grandmama-and to her bubbe, _and_ her mother, _and_ her older sister (that bitch). In fact, it was an heirloom passed down from generation to generation to all of the _oldest_ daughters in her family, and so a 17-year-old Blanche had no choice but to steel it right from her pregnant sister's home the night before running away from her hometown in Romania and fleeing to the states. See, every woman in her family seemed to get this gypsy business right on the money, but _not baby Blanche_. Oh, no. Blanche could never get the hang of it. They never let her forget either.

As she stared into the ball, she could see their faces appearing one by one. They were mocking her. Mocking her for being such a fool and a failure as a gypsy. Couldn't she ever do anything right? I mean, look at this boy. He believes in her. Can't she for once deliver on her promises and make her family proud?

"Is that possible?" she asked herself.

Suddenly, a new face appeared in the crystal ball. It was a girl...an oddly familiar 9-year-old girl with blonde pigtails and an unforgiving unibrow. _Poor thing_ , she thought. It took a few minutes for her to recall selling an "out of love" potion (it was really just grape juice) to the pathetic little child many moons ago. Madame Blanche was suddenly captivated by girl appearing in her heirloom.

"I want to be out of love! _Is that possible…?_ " The young apparition spoke staring passed Madame Blanche, as though talking to someone off screen. "Well, he's a boy...a weird, kind of quiet, kind of stupid, amazing boy...with a big heart and no sense of reality! Oh...and a football shaped head."

 _A football shaped head_. Madame Blanche suddenly looked up and stared at Arnold with wide eyes.

"M-madame Blanche?" Arnold stuttered, surprised by her sudden change in demeanor. "Is everything okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Blanche slowly came out of her shock and looked back at the crystal ball-now blank and ordinary like it always was. Her powers, it seemed, were only a temporary gift. She sighed. In that moment, Madame Blanche knew that for once in her life, she could deliver her promise to the boy. Except that, of course, she could do no such thing. She sighed. "I can't tell you her name."

"Why not?" Arnold inquired, somewhat disappointed in her response.

"I never asked her…" she confessed as she slowly pieced together the vital mistake she made over eight years ago by never asking that unusual customer her name.

"What?"

"Look kid, you two are meant to be together. Might not happen tonight. May not happen for a very long time, but I promise, one day, it's gonna happen. She's...well, she's a lot closer than you think."

* * *

"Well that was a huge fucking disappointment!" Gerald exclaimed as the two boys parted ways on their way home.

"Say Gerald," Arnold asked, "are you sure you don't know any Cecille that goes to our school?"

His tall friend sincerely pondered the question for a moment.

"No…" he thought. "I really, really can't think of anyone"

"I'm not _exactly_ sure why," Arnold admitted, "but the name sounds so familiar."

"Whatever you say, lover boy…" Gerald sighed.

"Hey, Gerald," he said, looking up at an open window of a house a few yards down the street.

"Sup."

"Do you really think that the girl of my dreams is watching us as we speak?" Arnold looked up into the distance. "Like Madame Blanche said," he added.

Gerald snorted.

"Arnold, man. I don't know what was in that bottle, but I can tell you this much: no one is taking a cold minute out of their evening to just sit there and spy on you."

* * *

"Oh, Arnold!" she blushed, as she stared longingly out her window at his quiet silhouette. She watched him and his slightly taller companion part ways and walk home, fast approaching her direction from the distance. She fingered the locket resting between her shirt and bra. "If only I could update this damn picture so I can finally capture your pristine manhood and carry it with me forever!" She peered over at his football shaped head and had an idea.

It took her several attempts to finally get a good angle of him-even with the DSLR camera Big Bob copped from one of his clients for her last year. The thing had been collecting dust in her closet all year until she finally pulled it off the top shelf.

" _Don't go scratchin' it up or anything."_

" _I won't_ Bob! _Jeez, you'd think I was nine years old!"_

" _Hey. You know the resale value of a $500 camera once it's gotta scratch? Nothing! Zilch!"_

" _Glad to know you're already planning to resell my birthday gift."_

" _Hey, hey hey! Don't give me that lip young lady."_

" _Fine! I'll be in my room sticking this piece of crap in a box so it stays in pristine condition forever!" She stomped away_.

Helga pulled out the $500 camera and inspected every corner, getting a feel for it. She opened her window, and pointed the camera towards the street corner to test out the zoom. The moment the lens focused, she instantly spotted Arnold and Gerald walking down the sidewalk, laughing carelessly nearly half a mile away. Helga leaned out more, watching him through the lense, as her face broke into a dreamy smile.

 _What a great view_! She thought. The powerful lense allowed her to see every detail: his tall stature, his hair blowing in the breeze...his casual stride...his big beautiful green jelly bean eyes….

Suddenly Arnold looked up in Helga's direction, and through the zoomed in lens, for a second it seemed as though he were making direct eye contact with her, catching her red-handed.

"Fuck!" She yelled, just before fumbling with the camera and feeling it slip out of her fingers. The camera flew out the window. "Shit! Bob's gonna kill me!"

On an impulse, Helga dove out the window to try to save the precious $500 camera from being splattered to pieces as it hit the ground. Stretching her fingers out, she managed to grab hold of the neck strap and rescued her expensive birthday gift right when it was about to descend out of reach.

"Whew!" she sighed.

Her victory was short lived however, for at this point, she was just barely hanging on to her window sill by the tips of her feet, while the rest of her body was propelled in the wind, and she found herself losing her balance.

"W-woooooah!" she yelled, as she inevitably fell head down out her window and dove towards the ground, a nearly fourteen feet descent.

She held out her hands to shield herself just as she was sure to meet her tragic end when she found herself suddenly halted mid-air; her legs caught between the branches of the oak tree in their front yard.

She growled in frustration as her entire body hung upside down from the tree, while she writhed and flailed her arms around fruitlessly attempting to undo the situation in which she found herself.

 _Oh look, Helga_ , she yelled at herself. _You're a human piñata_! She made several attempts to grab onto the blades of grass in their front lawn just inches from her outstretched fingers, but alas: Helga was indeed trapped right where she was and no amount of twisting and turning seemed to loosen the branches that were knotted around her ankles, holding her in place.

Over the sound of her grunting and the leaves falling into her hair while she shook the branches by trying to jerk her legs free, she hardly noticed the soft footsteps approaching her. It was only when she noticed an upside down pair of denim clad legs blocking her view that she realized she was no longer alone.

"Helga?" said the voice belonging to those legs.

Helga's heart skipped a beat as she looked up to see Arnold's face towering above her as he looked down at her body hanging upside down like blonde, pigtailed 17 year-old Spiderman.

"Arnold!" she cried. She was suddenly very self conscious of the position she was in as he stared at her. "I mean…. _what?_ What are _you_ lookin' at?"

"Um….what are you doing hanging from a tree?"

" _Oh_! So a girl can't just hang down from her own tree, huh? I thought this was a free country!" she yelled, crossing her arms in front of her like it was the most natural thing in the entire world.

"I just thought maybe you were stuck. W-why do you have a camera?"

It then occurred to Helga that amidst all this chaos, her DSLR never left her hand.

"Oh...this thing?" she said looking down at it. "Um….it's part of my...uh….weekly photography lesson?"

"Your weekly photography lesson," Arnold repeated, flatly.

"Yes, _Arnold_ , my weekly photography lesson. Every Wednesday, I like to...uh...practice my photography skills."

"By hanging down from a tree…"

"That's how you get the best angle!" she challenged him.

"What exactly are you trying to photograph from this angle?" he asked, skeptically.

"Oh you know…." Helga pondered when she suddenly noticed a pigeon flying above them. " _Pigeons_."

"Pigeons," Arnold repeated back, incredulously.

"Yes Arnold," she sighed emphatically. "I'm very fond of _pigeons_!"

"If you say so," he sighed. "Are you sure you don't need help getting down?"

"Like I'd _ever_ ask _you_ for help. Not that I need it or anything."

"Alright…" He stood back up, and with his shoulders slumped, headed out.

Helga growled, and started twisting her body in every which direction trying pry her foot loose from the knotted branch to no avail. She turned to see Arnold's silhouette walking away from her, and realized she had no choice at this point.  
"Wait! Arnold!" she yelled.

Arnold, who was still within earshot, turned around and looked back at her.

"Yes?"

"Um….since you _insist_ on poking your nose in my business-maybe you can kind of help me get down from here."

"Sure! Uh-" Helga noticed Arnold suddenly blushing profusely as he approached her. His eyes darted away, but then fell back on her. Then they darted away again. And then glued back on her. "Actually, Helga…" he stammered. "If you don't mind...um….the thing is…."

"Spit it out already!"

"You, uh….might wanna fix your shirt."

A gust of wind blew against Helga's exposed abdomen, as she became aware that in all her frantic attempts to dislodge herself from the tree, the hem of her t-shirt had fallen down in the process to expose her all the way down to her white cotton bra.

" _Quit staring you sick pervert!_ " She yelled, frantically yanking her shirt back over her chest, and tucking it into her jeans, while simultaneously attempting to diffuse her embarrassment.

"Sorry….I wasn't trying to stare."

"Yeah, yeah, _save it for the judge_. Now get me down from here!"

"Alright…" Arnold said, as he grabbed onto a low hanging branch and hoisted himself up. Perched up on the tree, Arnold stood up and balanced himself on one of the branches before reaching out for where Helga's feet were tied up. He tried separating some of the foliage to get a view, only to have millions of fall leaves shaken out in the process.

" _Watch it!_ " Helga yelled, frantically fanning away all the leaves that were stuck to her clothes and hair.

"Sorry!" Arnold yelled down. "I think I see the problem!"

"Great! Instead of standing around waiting for a gold medal, why not make yourself useful and-W-woooooooh!"

The branch on which Arnold stood for balance suddenly snapped, causing him to reflexively grab onto Helga's feet. In a single instance, Helga's feet came loose, and both she Arnold found themselves tumbling down like Jack and Jill.

Helga fell on her back, landing right in a pile of brightly colored leaves that did little to cushion her fall, and with her fell Arnold, face forward right on top of her already sore body.

To the passerby, the two teens appeared like lovers caught in each other's embrace, and for a moment, while Arnold's nose was buried in the crook of Helga's neck, the two lay there just like that as they came down from the adrenaline rush of nearly falling to their death.

Arnold finally poked his head up and looked at Helga, who in turn looked back up at him. He noticed her pigtails came undone and admired the way her long locks of blonde hair lay wildly across the grass, with little bits of orange leaves peppered here or there.

"Arnold…" she sang, with a dumb look on her face.

"Yes, Helga?" he sang back.

"Are we in heaven?"

"Um….no...Wait, what?"

"Everything is so perfect. You, me, the _beautiful leaves_ …"

"Helga, are you feeling okay?"

"Of course I'm okay, silly..." she giggled, as she turned her head to see what heaven looked like. "Why wouldn't I…" Just then, she surveyed the lawn and it hit her like a ten pound bag of rice that she was still very much alive and very much trapped beneath Arnold's 160 pound body. Helga's heart sank to her stomach when she realized what she sounded like. She immediately scowled at Arnold like a cat running from water. "I...I mean, _get the hell off of me you twisted perverted freak!_ "

Arnold flinched from the her unexpected explosion and swiftly pushed himself onto his knees to climb off of her.

"S-sorry…" he stammered. He wasn't sure why he felt so guilty. It's not like he _asked_ to fall on her like this. He had every right to defend himself against her accusations! And yet... "I-I should go…"

He stuttered, standing up and trying to clear his head. He suddenly noticed a bright red stain on Helga's shirt.

"Helga, you're _bleeding_!" he shouted.

"No Arnold," she replied, with a concerned look on her face as she struggled onto her elbows, and lifted herself up. " _You're_ bleeding."

* * *

AN: Sorry for the extremely delayed update. To be honest, I was getting the feeling that people weren't that interested in this story anymore.

Either way, what were some of the things you liked about this chapter? What about things you didn't like? What would you like to see in the future?


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